


rotten work

by aholynight



Category: WTFock | Skam (Belgium)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Attempted Sexual Assault, Bipolar Disorder, But there's Fluff too I promise, Drug Use, M/M, Past Child Abuse, Sexual Tension, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, and they're both a little bit broken, beware the angst folks, robbe in this fic has his long s1 skater-boy hair and breathes fire like the trailer, sander is in a band and has a bad bad bad reputation and lots of tattoos, with some pretty self-destructive tendencies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22239544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aholynight/pseuds/aholynight
Summary: Robbe is a college freshman whose reckless habits and excessive drinking are starting to look an awful lot like calculated self-destruction—though his loneliness might be the thing that kills him first.Sander is a visual arts major a few years above Robbe, with a face nobody can forget and a fuck boy reputation he can't seem to shake.Everybody warns Robbe to stay away from the Sander, unless he wants to get burned. But Robbe's the kind of boy who likes playing with fire.
Relationships: Sander Driesen/Robbe IJzermans
Comments: 272
Kudos: 1120





	1. Chapter One

“Do the thing.”

Robbe’s eyes found Jens’ in the dark. One crooked smile meeting another. They were drunk. They were past drunk. The stars overhead seemed dirty, somehow, glittering shards of broken glass in a puddle of alleyway grime. They were standing outside of some garage, Robbe didn’t know whose. He never knew. It was every other college freshmen party: girls in tights and puffy coats, puffs of icy breath streaming into narcotic exhales. Robbe and his friends were huddled under a basketball hoop in the driveway, passing a joint back and forth

“Do the thing,” Jens repeated. “I know you brought the stuff.”

For the fourth, fifth, hundredth time that night, Robbe wished he had the power to say no to Jens. 

He wished he had the power to say no to anybody.

It was true, though. Jens was right. Robbe did have the stuff. In his pockets was a thrilling collection of ominous paraphernalia, a how-to manual for any self-loathing deadbeat looking to slowly self-destruct. Stolen pill bottles, a carton of half-smoked joints, a flask of vodka so cheap it legally counted as antifreeze. Most innocent-looking was a little box of corn starch.

Moyo was already fishing his phone out to him film. Robbe ashed the rest of the joint under his heel. 

“Lighter,” he said, lifting his chin at Jens. 

“Fuck yeah!” Jens cheered, bumping fists with Moyo and Aaron. He tossed the lighter to Robbe. 

Robbe’s head swam. It was freezing outside, but he didn’t feel cold anymore. He didn’t feel much of anything. 

The boys backed away from him. The lights from their phones were like three eyes in the dark. A three-eyed monster. Robbe looked up at the house. Some college band was playing inside: a thrash of drums and poorly-tuned guitars. The lead singer was a rakish, disreputable, wickedly beautiful junior: bleached-blonde hair and a too-pretty face, a mic cord snaking around his inked forearm. The bass was loud enough to hear outside. Huddles of people were crowded in open doorways or hanging out of windows, smoking or making out or singing along to the band. 

More camera lights turned on. That many-eyed monster was growing. Nobody knew who Robbe was, not really—he was Jens’ shadow, his little skater friend, that one with the long surfer-boy hair who hung out with those other wannabe Youtuber fuck-ups. But Robbe had done this trick at enough parties to gain some infamy. 

He swayed on his feet. He couldn’t make out any individual faces, not really. Even Jens, beautiful Jens, was just another writhing limb, indistinguishable from the others. Twelve eyes, now. Fifteen. 

“He’s gonna do it!” someone was yelling. It could’ve been anyone—Jana, Luca, Amber. 

Robbe filled his mouth with corn starch, careful not to inhale. 

He flicked the lighter until the flame ignited.

And then he blew. 

Fire erupted in a blaze, swirling with particles. Robbe jerked backwards. 

The many-eyed monster was alive, cheering, shouting, multiplying the same Instagram video from different angles in every possible permutation, blue screens reproducing the same loop: Robbe Izjermans, the boy who breathed fire. 

—

By two AM Robbe’s head was pounding. He let Jens convince him to shotgun half an eight-pack, and now Moyo was pouring beer straight from the bottle into Robbe’s throat. Robbe choked and swallowed. Aaron was filming all of it. Robbe had tried batting away his phone a dozen times by now, but it always reappeared, like clockwork. It was a part of Robbe’s self-loathing Sunday ritual: lay in bed nursing his hangover until noon, watch the Instagram stories of all the stupid shit he’d let his friends do to him until he swore he’d never talk to Jens or Moyo or Aaron again, and then immediately forgive them when they showed up at 3 PM with something greasy to cure his hangover. 

“Open up, baby boy,” said Jens, patting Robbe’s cheek. 

Robbe opened his mouth. Jens’ face was just inches from his, dark eyes and a kissable mouth so close Robbe could almost taste him. Robbe wanted him so bad he felt sick. 

Jens placed something on his tongue and patted Robbe’s cheek. Robbe swallowed dutifully, closing his eyes. Knowing Jens it was just a fucking Zyrtec.

The house was still pulsating with music, a low bass rumbling under the floorboards, though the band had stopped playing a few hours ago. Now it was just speakers and sticky vodka puddles, spilt beer foaming on stained carpet, half-dressed bodies in corner bedrooms and bathtubs, powdered drugs on bathroom sinks. 

Robbe was pretty sure he was in one of those bathtubs. He climbed out, badly needing to piss, not trusting his friends enough to do it in front of them. Knowing them Robbe’s dick would be in half a dozen Instagram stories within minutes. 

He leaned against the closed door once he’d finally escaped, grateful to be away from the fog of weed, beer bottles he didn’t ask for pressed against his lips, the glowing eyes of camera phones.

His knees wobbled. His vision was shifty, traitorous. He was in a hallway, carpeted. Shapes moved at either end. In one direction, the open mouth of a stairwell, writhing with bodies. At the other more bedrooms, flickering lights spilling beneath closed doors. Robbe looked up. In front of him was a painting. Maybe a Renaissance painting. In this painting he saw a cloud of hair, ice-blonde. Aqua-green eyes. Skin like gold. Like honey. Maybe it was a painting of a prince. A demigod in leather armor. An archangel.

Robbe slid the floor. The painting reached out of its gilded frame, extending a hand. Robbe started to laugh. 

The prince in the painting did not laugh back. He tugged Robbe to his feet, setting him upright. Robbe blinked, dazedly. He didn’t feel like laughing anymore. Those were real hands on his shoulders, strong hands. Robbe shivered. He’d lost his jacket ages ago, and now he was left in an over-sized white t-shirt, one of Jens’s, a Stormzy tour t-shirt with a cross on the front. 

“I think it’s time for you to go home,” said the prince. 

Robbe shook his head dumbly. He closed his eyes. “Don’t want to.”

“Why not?” 

Because as soon as he went back to his dorm room, he’d be alone. 

He lifted his eyes to the prince’s. He looked so real. Robbe reached out to touch his face. 

He was too beautiful to be real, but he had to be. Robbe felt him. He had to be.

The prince in the painting took Robbe’s wrist. The corner of his mouth lifted, amused. Robbe wanted to kiss that mouth. Then he’d know for sure. 

So he leaned up on his tip-toes. 

The prince laughed and jerked away, pushing Robbe gently against the wall. Robbe let himself be pushed. Robbe would’ve let him do anything. 

“Not tonight. Not like this,” said the prince. He dragged his thumb along Robbe’s bottom lip. Robbe’s mouth parted. He closed his eyes. Against his ear, a low voice, deep and throaty: “See you around, fire-breather.”

—

The hangover that Robbe experienced the following morning was head-splitting, though not the worst he’d ever experienced. Or maybe he was just becoming numb to them. There was a glass of water and a bottle of pain killers next to his bed, which he swallowed gratefully. It was Milan’s doing, most likely. Milan was a senior who lived in a studio in Robbe’s suite. They shared a bathroom and a kitchenette with one another person, Zoe, another freshman girl. Milan was almost never there, but whenever he was he was singularly focused on improving Robbe’s love life. Robbe was desperate enough that he occasionally let him. A couple of times he even went out with Milan’s friends, but he felt so small and plain among them, unrefined and rough-edged, that he’d stopped accepting Milan’s invitations. He didn’t fit in with any of the gay people he knew. He didn’t fit in with any straight people either—the only reason he stuck with Jens and Moyo and Aaron was because he’d known them forever. 

He was still grateful for Milan. Robbe didn’t have a relationship with his dad, and his mom had spent most of the past couple of years in a hospital. He visited her as much as he could, but he didn’t really feel like he had anyone to go to when he needed help. Milan was on fifteen different university committees and went out at least six nights a week, but he was the closest thing Robbe had to a mentor, someone he could go to when he needed advice. This wasn’t to say Milan’s advice was always great—he, after all, was the one who advised Robbe to get a Grindr account, though this wasn’t a total loss, either. The sex was fine—good enough to make Robbe feel less lonely, if only for a night—but he felt dirty and used afterwards, and no one ever seemed to want to stay the night.

Once his headache finally subsided, Robbe got dressed and went to the skatepark. 

Robbe was good at skating. He was the easily the best among his friends. The boys’ Youtube videos of him skating were the biggest hits on their channel, big enough that he occasionally got recognized by other skaters at the park. He let the boys film him until his headache returned, and then he collapsed in the grass next to Jens, accepting the soda he offered gratefully.

He pulled a burgundy beanie over his hair, which still smelled like smoke from the night before. He needed a shower, and an actual meal, and a full night’s sleep. 

The sunlight was fading into peach and pink. Robbe cupped a hand over his eyes, his breath billowing out in chilly streams. His knee was touching Jens’s.

A flash of white hair caught his eye.

Robbe moved his hand. It was the prince from the painting. 

He grabbed Jens’s wrist. “Who is that?”

“Him,” said Robbe. Jens followed his gaze. It was definitely the same guy. Robbe would’ve recognized him anywhere. 

“Why? You know him?”

Robbe took off his beanie, running a hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. He could feel Jens’s eyes on the side of his face. 

He ducked his head. It still felt awkward talking to Jens about guys. “I uh…I think I—” Robbe sucked the corner of his lip into his mouth and released it. “I think I tried to kiss him. Last night.”

“Seriously? Him?” Jens’ eyes were wide. “Stay away from that dude.”

“Why?”

“You don’t know him? That’s Sander Driesen.”

_Sander Driesen._ Robbe whispered the name under his breath, savoring the feel of those syllables in his mouth. It felt familiar. He’d seen him at parties, for sure. A boy like Sander was hard to miss.

“He’s the biggest fuckboy around. The guy sleeps with everybody. Remember that sophomore I was seeing last fall? She told me after she slept with Sander he literally forgot her name. She said hi to him in the dining hall and he just stared at her like he’d never seen her before in his life.”

Robbe’s heart sank.

“I mean it, Robbe,” said Jens. “He’s bad fucking news.”

It didn’t matter. Sander was out of his league anyways. Sander was on another fucking planet.

That night, Robbe scrolled through Grindr, reading nasty message after message. He threw his phone on the bed and made himself a bowl of ramen in the suite kitchenette. He opened his laptop to throw on something from Netflix. His phone glowed. He picked it up and closed out of Grindr. 

Before he could stop himself, he opened up Instagram and typed in Sander’s name. 

There was nothing. He tried Facebook. Nothing. He searched for him on Google.

The only page that came up was the uni’s art department website. It was a video the department had put together of their Fall Visual Art Showcase. Around a minute in was a still photo of Sander, mid-laugh, wearing a respectable black button-down shirt, a hint of a tattoo just peaking out from the collar. He was holding a champagne flute and standing with what looked like a professor next to a huge painting. It was hard to see what the painting was, but to Robbe it looked like a giant red orb. A planet, maybe. It looked like Mars. And in the center of a crater was a white silhouette, featureless and alone.

Robbe took a screenshot of the photo. He tried to concentrate on the show he’d chosen to stream, but every few minutes he found himself studying the photo again. A faint memory prickled at the back of his mind. The rough bass of a voice, right next to his ear. 

_Fire-breather._

—

Robbe felt out of place immediately. The apartment complex in front of him was towering, all sleek industrial surfaces, wall-to-wall windows that overlooked the glittering city grid, concrete and thousand-dollar light fixtures and art installations that Robbe couldn’t even begin to understand. He texted Noor to let her know he’d arrived. 

He promised himself tonight he was only going to have one joint. Maybe two. Three or four drinks, no more than that. No blacking out, no humiliating antics that ended up all over Instagram, no filthy encounters with boys in bathrooms that made him feel like shit the next morning. Just a normal party. 

The door buzzed, and Robbe rode the elevator all the way up, watching the city below him shrink to doll-house size. He looked down at his outfit. It was the same shit he’d wear to the skatepark, only this time he at least took a shower.

The elevator opened. Robbe immediately wished he’d put in a little more effort.

This was what he called a Noor party. Noor was his ex, but they’d managed to stay close friends. Like Milan, she’d become obsessed with finding Robbe a boyfriend, though she hadn’t found any success yet either. He wasn’t sure why he kept letting her invite him to shit like this: all of Noor’s parties were either basement art shows or gallery openings or underground raves, full of her too-cool artist friends. There was always some trendy garage band or up-and-coming rapper who just released their first EP or ethereal-looking girl dressed like an alien DJ-ing to a projector of some black-and-white movie that everybody but Robbe seemed to know. Everywhere he looked was a pastel haircut or a septum piercing or some haute-couture nonsense that only people like this, with money like _that,_ could pull off. All of Noor’s friends were in the art department and every one of them was unbearably hip and intimidating. They looked at Robbe like he was worthless.

He brushed past a huddle of tall, thin girls who looked like runway models, unable to see or hear much over the music. A band was playing in the living room: there were too many people in front of Robbe to see them, but they looked like the band from the house party the other night.

“Hey!” 

Robbe turned around. Noor looked stunning as usual: dark lipstick, sleek haircut, tight black dress. She kissed his cheek and pushed a cocktail into his hands. 

“That’s the band I was telling you about.” She linked his arm with hers, raising her voice over the noise. “A couple of those guys are in class with me. Painters, most of them.”

Noor lead him from the kitchen to the living room, weaving in and out of bodies, exchanging cheek kisses with a few people she knew and occasionally introducing them to Robbe, though he couldn’t hear any of their names under the noise, and they barely looked at Robbe anyways.

“They started off as a kind of shitty punk band,” Noor explained, her mouth right next to Robbe’s ear as they pushed their way closer, “but now they mostly just play for fun, covers, mostly stuff from the sixties and seventies. Pink Floyd, The Doors. David Bowie.” 

The penthouse was huge, all windows, all glass and strobe lights and white-leather furniture, chrome fixtures and paintings that took up entire walls. Robbe could spend hours examining every corner of it. 

But nothing was as eye-catching as the boy in the center of it all. He was as wickedly beautiful as Robbe remembered him: lunar-white hair, sleeves of intricate tattoos, something feral and hungry and wolfish about the way he commanded the room, shirtless and sharp-edged. A black mic cord was wrapped around his skinny wrist. He wore the same outfit from the other night, though before Robbe had only seen him from the window. His black jeans were ripped at the knee, his combat boots splattered with paint. His bare, lanky torso shimmered with sweat beneath the flashing lights. Robbe was close enough now to make out the details of his tattoos: a lightning bolt across his chest, an astronaut’s helmet, constellations sprayed over the hollows of his ribcage like glitter. A barren red planet, milky-way cosmic swirls. 

Robbe looked up. Even now, in the flesh, covered in ink and dripping with sweat, it was hard to believe he was a boy and not a prince in a Renaissance painting. 

It was even harder to believe that Sander Driesen was looking right at him. Robbe’s breath caught. Noor’s fingers tightened around his wrist. He looked down. The song they were playing was one Robbe didn’t recognize, though everyone around him was singing along.

He looked up again. Sander ran his fingers through his bleached hair, tousled and sweaty. His eyes were dark over the microphone. 

_Hot tramp, I love you so._ Everyone in the room sang along. Robbe looked around. Everybody was staring at Sander. 

He looked up again. Sander was unmistakably staring at him.

Robbe’s skin felt too tight. Too hot. He pushed his way through the crowd, muttering “smoke break” to Noor when she turned to him, curious. 

He walked down a dark hallway, past couples and girls taking selfies, until he found himself on a balcony. The balcony was huge, of course: there was a barbecue and expensive-looking patio furniture and delicate string lights, huddles of people smoking in every corner. 

Robbe didn’t know why he came. He didn’t belong at parties like this.

His breath streamed out of him in chilly puffs. He pulled his jacket tighter around his shoulders. He wanted to bum a light off the group smoking nearby, but they looked too intimidating to talk to. He should’ve made Jens come with him. He wanted shitty beer and a skateboard, bruised knees and cheap weed. Stupid teenagers dancing badly to shitty hip-hop. He wanted Moyo and Aaron one-upping each other at the keg stand, drawing dicks in sharpies on whichever unlucky asshole passed out first. He wanted to do something stupid. He wanted to walk that dangerous knife-edge between recklessness and self-annihilation. 

He wanted somebody to kiss him.

Light flooded behind him. It sounded like the band stopped playing. A door opened, and all the figures from the balcony start streaming inside. Robbe looked down at his phone.

No new messages.

He opened Instagram and clicked on Jens’s story. Moyo and Aaron were battling each other in FIFA, cheap beer cans scattered around them, an open pizza box. Robbe couldn’t help but grin.

The light disappeared. Robbe pocketed his phone and looked around. The balcony was empty.

He walked back into the hallway, searching for Noor. There were only a few people left in the kitchen, and most of them were gathering jackets and bags, heading outside. 

He found Noor exiting the bathroom. She took his elbow. “You coming? We got a noise complaint. We’re moving the party, it’s just a few blocks away—”

Robbe shrugged. “Yeah, I’ll catch up. Just text me the address.”

Noor kissed him on the cheek and left. Robbe entered the bathroom. 

It was all snow-white marble and chrome, spit-shined and minimalist. On the wall was a black painting, a strange alien-looking silhouette in its center. 

Robbe went to the sink and splashed cold water on his face. He wished he’d brought a joint with him. He felt too sober. His head was too loud. He wanted to drown out its noise, drift away on some soporific current, numb, sedated. 

All he brought was a flask. He took a few swigs. Not enough to get drunk, but enough to soften the edges a little. 

He left the bathroom. Déjà vu. 

In front of him was none other than Sander Driesen, in all his bleached-blonde leather-jacket ludicrously beautiful glory. 

“You,” said Sander, taking Robbe by the arm.

Robbe stumbled after him, too shocked to do anything but follow, before he finally gathered his bearings and jerked his arm away.

Sander had brought him back to the balcony. Behind him, the last of the partygoers were shuffling out the door.

“But—everybody else is leaving,” Robbe protested dumbly.

“Exactly,” said Sander. The string lights made a halo of his pale hair. 

Robbe swallowed and joined him at the railing. Sander produced a little baggie of weed and rolling papers. Robbe swallowed hard, watching the flick of Sander’s tongue as he finished rolling the joint. 

He struck a match and cupped the flame around the wick, inhaling until the cherry glowed red. 

“You want?” said Sander, holding out the joint.

Robbe nodded quickly, trying not to think about the fact that his mouth was touching where Sander’s had just been. He inhaled, gratefully. “Thank you.”

Sander smiled at him. Robbe took another pull and handed it back. 

“I always have to smoke after I play,” Sander explained. “It helps me bring me down.”

Robbe bit his lip. Everything about this moment felt surreal: the fog of the weed, Sander’s silhouette in a swirl of blue smoke, the glittering city beneath them.

“I should text Noor,” said Robbe.

“Noor knows where you are,” said Sander.

“You…what?” Robbe felt so confused. “But you…how did you know how I came here with her?”

“I saw you with her. Onstage. I was singing to you. You didn’t see me?” said Sander, as if it were obvious.

Robbe blinked. “I…I didn’t think you were actually looking at me.”

Sander smiled at him again. It was an unexpectedly sweet smile, boyish, almost shy. It made him look so much younger than he was.

“Do you even know my name?” Robbe asked. 

“Of course I do,” Sander laughed. “You’re Robbe Ijzermans. You’re the fire-breather.”

“I—you’ve seen those videos?” Robbe couldn’t disguise his shock.

“Of course I have,” said Sander. He tilted his head, still grinning, as if this conversation were terribly amusing to him. “I’ve seen your other videos too, the skate ones. You’re really good. I’d like to photograph you some time.”

Robbe tucked a lock of hair behind his ear, trying to look casual about this piece of information. Not only did Sander know his name, but he’d taken the time to watch his skating videos. Which meant it was possible he’d seen all the other stupid videos is friends had taken of him too: him and Moyo dancing, Jens and Moyo duct-taping him to a wall, Robbe deep-throating a water bottle and failing at yoga and badly rapping and a hundred other idiotic things he couldn’t even remember. 

“I’ve been worried about you,” said Sander, offering the joint back to Robbe.

“What?” Robbe laughed, confused. “Why?”

“That party. The house party a few days back. You seemed so…”

Robbe ducked his head. He’d been so gone that night. He chewed the corner of his lip, a muscle leaping in his jaw. Whatever Sander had seen, whatever Robbe had done—it couldn’t have been anything less than humiliating.

“I thought maybe I should’ve taken you home,” said Sander.

“Was I that bad?” Robbe dared a look up at Sander. 

Sander shook his head, a small, fond smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “I’ve seen worse,” he said. “I’ve _been_ worse,” he added, with a self-deprecating grin.

Robbe smiled back. He still hadn’t quite made it past the fact that Sander knew he who was, let alone that they were smoking a joint together on a penthouse balcony, let alone that he was being so _nice_ to him.

“So what did you think of the show?” Sander asked.

“Good,” said Robbe, shrugging.

“Just good?” Sander laughed. 

“Best I’ve ever seen,” Robbe tried again, “Astonishing. Ground-breaking.”

“That’s better,” said Sander, relighting the end of the joint and passing it back to Robbe. “Are you a Bowie fan, then?”

“Who?”

Sander laughed, shaking his head. “Bowie. David Bowie. We were playing his songs.”

“Oh…right,” said Robbe, scratching the back of his neck. “Yeah, I’ve heard of him.”

“Name three of his songs.”

“Well there’s…you know, the only you played, obliviously,” said Robbe, “And of course you can’t forget the other one you played. And then that third one, too, of course.”

Sander _tsk-tsk_ -ed disapprovingly, shaking his head. He took the joint from between Robbe’s hands, his fingers lingering just long enough to send a thrill down Robbe’s spine.

“You’ve lost your joint privileges,” Sander admonished.

Robbe made a whining sound in the back of his throat. Sander laughed.

“Maybe I’ll make you a playlist,” said Sander, “so you can learn.”

“I’ll study very hard,” Robbe promised. 

“Of course. Gotta get that passing grade.” Sander winked. 

Robbe wasn’t sure when their faces had inched so close to each other. He couldn’t breathe.

“Though,” Sander’s voice dipped lower, “you could always bribe the professor.”

“Me?” Robbe put a hand on his heart and wore his most innocent expression. “I would never.”

Sander should his head, doubtful. “I know boys like you. You’re trouble.”

“ _I’m_ trouble?” Robbe laughed, incredulous. “Me? Look at you!”

“I’m an angel,” said Sander, grinning devilishly. “But you. You’re definitely trouble.”

Robbe scoffed, taking the joint back. He took a long pull. Sander’s eyes pinned him where he stood. The weed gave Robbe the nerve he needed: this time, he met Sander’s gaze dead-on.

“Oh, yeah,” said Sander softly. “You’re gonna get me in big, big trouble.”

Robbe released the joint. He was afraid if he took another pull he might choke. Sander took the joint from him, still studying Robbe’s face.

“Can I make you something? Some food, I mean,” said Sander. “I’m starving.”

“Okay,” said Robbe quietly.

“Come,” said Sander, tilting his head in the direction of the penthouse. Robbe followed him inside. 

It was strange to see it empty now. In the living room was a drum set, abandoned guitars and amps and speakers. Expensive-looking liquor bottles and half-empty glasses littered the room. 

“Shit,” said Sander, observing the room. “This place is trashed. Senne’s gonna kill me.”

“Senne?”

Sander nodded. “Yeah, you know him?”

“Yeah, he dates a girl who lives in my suite.”

“Really?” 

Robbe nodded.

“Oh shit…well. He’s like a brother to me. I’ve kinda been squatting here for a long time.”

“This isn’t your place?” Robbe asked.

Sander snorted. “No way.”

Robbe rocked back on his heels, observing the mess. “I can help you clean up?” he offered.

Sander turned to face him with another one of those amused smiles. “Aren’t you a sweetheart.”

Robbe felt his cheeks heat. 

Sander laughed. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of it tomorrow. Now, we eat croques.”

“Croques?”

“Yes, Robbe. Croques.”

Robbe followed Sander to the kitchen. He hopped onto a clean space on the counter as Sander retrieved a pan, butter, bread. 

Sander brought him a glass of water. Robbe thanked him and sipped it quietly, watching as Sander began preparing their meal.

“So…why do you live here?”

Instead of answering, Sander offered him a bite of the croque. “Try this.”

Robbe took a bite. 

“Good, yeah?” 

Robbe wiped crumbs from the corner of his mouth, nodding. Sander’s gaze fell briefly to his lips before he returned to the stove to make another. 

“We’re not going to that party, are we?” Robbe asked, finishing the last of his croque. 

Sander merely quirked an eyebrow and threw their plates into the sink. “Come with me.”

Robbe followed him back to the balcony, then up a wrought-iron spiral staircase. “Fuck, how big is this place?” he asked.

“Just wait,” said Sander, helping Robbe up the final steps. 

They were on a rooftop. Strung around them were fairy lights, more patio furniture, speakers. 

And in the center was a hot tub, already glowing aquamarine and bioluminescent from the lights inside, fizzing with bubbles. 

“Fucking rich people, right?” Sander smirked. “Get in.”

Sander took off his combat boots. Then his pants. Robbe gaped at him in disbelief. 

Before Robbe could catch his breath, Sander took off his boxers and slipped into the hot tub.

“You’re joking,” said Robbe.

Sander made a big production of shrugging his shoulders. “Why would I be joking?”

“Because—” Robbe spluttered.

“The water’s warm, Robbe,” said Sander, flicking his hand. Robbe jumped back to avoid the splash. “Get in.”

“But my clothes—”

“You want your clothes to get wet in here?”

Sander leaned back, elbows resting on the rim of the hot tub, looking cocksure and arrogant and so sinful Robbe felt his ribs constricting.

“Come on, _fire-breather_ ,” said Sander, “don’t tell me a little dare-devil like you is afraid of a little water?”

Moonlight lanced across Sander’s face. His eyes glittered, the lights from the tub dancing across his face, a masterpiece of sharp jawlines and shadows. 

His stare dared Robbe to make the next move.

Good thing Robbe liked dares.

Robbe’s jacket slipped off his shoulders. He took off his shoes, then his t-shirt. Sander’s eyes traveled down, then upwards again, his eyebrow lifting appreciatively. Robbe took off his pants, leaving him practically naked before Sander’s devouring stare.

He took a step forward.

Sander clucked his tongue, shaking his head. “Not quite, Ijzermans. All the way, or no way.”

Robbe closed his eyes, bracing himself. Goosebumps rose all over his flesh. 

He ripped off his boxers and jumped in, sending a magnificent wave crashing over Sander’s hand. A beautiful laugh tore from Sander’s throat as he captured Robbe in a headlock. The boys rose to the surface, sputtering, their limbs slippery against each other, the water lapping against them. 

“See?” Sander bit his lip with a smug grin. “It’s nice, right?”

Robbe splashed him one more time for good measure. Sander’s knee knocked against his. Something was filling Robbe’s lungs, something brash and nervy. He’d barely had anything to drink, but he was drunk on the feeling. Sander’s lips were pink and slick and so, so close. Fever-hot water folded around him in waves. He felt the way he did the minute before he breathed fire. A mouth full of fuel. All he needed was a flame. 

It felt dangerous. Sander wasn’t a flame. He was a forest fire. He was an inferno. He burned hot enough to scorch entire planets. 

But Robbe was just foolish and self-destructive enough to be the kind of boy who liked playing with fire.

“What’re you thinking about, Robbe Ijzermans?” Sander whispered. 

Robbe’s throat worked. His eyes found Sander’s. He was a fish on a hook. 

“Bad things,” Robbe whispered. His voice was no more than a rasp.

“Oh?” Sander’s voice was rough, a husky scrape of vowels. “What kind of bad things—?”

Robbe pressed his lips against Sander’s, cutting him off. Sander’s lips parted beneath his, as if surprised.

Sander pulled away. Robbe blinked water from his eyes, searching Sander’s cool green gaze desperately, hoping he hadn’t made some mistake—

Sander closed his eyes. His eyelashes were like smears of wet cinder. A muscle jumped in his jaw. 

“You’re trouble,” Sander breathed. His eyelashes lifted, revealing aqua-green so pretty it hurt Robbe to look at them. “You’re a bad idea.”

Robbe shook his head. He pressed his forehead against Sander’s, nosing against his cheek. “I’m a really, really good idea.”

Sander huffed a laugh through his nose. His fingers bit into Robbe’s hips, his big hands almost swallowing Robbe’s waist whole. His mouth still didn’t touch Robbe’s.

“Kiss me,” Robbe whispered. 

“Bad idea,” Sander repeated. “ _You’re_ a bad idea, pretty boy.”

Robbe was in Sander’s lap now. His lips brushed against Sander’s again, feather-light. He tasted chlorine and expensive vodka, mint gum and tobacco. 

He felt Sander’s fingers tangle in the back of his hair, twisting tightly, just the right side of painful. Robbe was relieved he hadn’t gotten that haircut yet. 

Sander’s lips dragged against Robbe’s cheek, as if he couldn’t help himself. “ _Fuck_ —”

Robbe turned his cheek, so their lips met. This time, Sander kissed him back, hungrily, his tongue licking Robbe open, one hand still fisting the back of Robbe’s hair, moving Robbe exactly where he wanted him, his other hand on Robbe’s back, pulling him close. Robbe straddled him, his arms looped around Sander’s neck, lost in the dark, dizzying drag of Sander’s kisses.

Never had Robbe been kissed like this. Sander’s lips erased every other kiss he’d ever had from his memory. Robbe felt wiped clean. Tabula rasa. Scorched earth, empty, full of virile, violent promise, ready to be remade by Sander’s strong hands, his cunning mouth.

“I’m sorry,” Sander panted. Robbe nestled his face in the crook of Sander’s neck, trying to catch his breath. “I didn’t meant to do that—”

“Then why’d you bring me up here?” asked Robbe.

“Because, I’m very, very stupid, Robbe,” said Sander, tipping his head back. He closed his eyes. He was still holding Robbe’s waist as if he couldn’t quite bear to let him go. “That’s why.”

“Well, Sander Driesen,” said Robbe, running his fingers through Sander’s hair. “Lucky for you I’m very, very stupid, too.”

Sander smiled, bittersweet. The sight of it made Robbe’s heart twist. 

“We could be stupid together?” said Robbe. 

In an extraordinary display of will-power, Sander lifted Robbe from his lap, ignoring Robbe’s whine of protest. He climbed out of the hot tub and fished out two towels from a storage cubby under one of the patio cushions. Robbe caught the towel Sander threw at him and reluctantly climbed out. 

They dressed in uncomfortable silence. A million protests crowded at the back of Robbe’s throat, but he couldn’t find the nerve the voice any of them. Sander wouldn’t even look at him as he led Robbe back down he spiral staircase and into the penthouse. Robbe followed him down the dark hallway into the kitchen, feeling more and more miserable by the second. 

“I could still help you clean up, if you want?” Robbe offered. He’d never felt more pathetic.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” said Sander. His voice was unreadable. He fished out a pair of keys from a dish near the front door and jerked his chin, indicating Robbe to follow him.

But Robbe didn’t move. He hugged his jacket to his chest. “Can’t I just stay here? Please?”

Sander ran a hand through his hair, still damp from the hot-tub, his cheeks still pink from the heat. He shook his head.

“Why not?” said Robbe. He felt petulant and pathetic, but he didn’t care. “I thought you—” He cut himself off before he could finish. _I thought you slept with everybody._

Robbe chewed the corner of his lip. _Everybody except me, apparently._

“You thought I what?” said Sander coolly. He was only a few feet from Robbe now. 

Robbe forced himself to lift his face. Instead of answering, he asked, “Can’t I just stay?”

“That’s not fair,” said Sander.

“What’s not fair?” 

“You,” said Sander, waving his hand at Robbe, as if it were obvious. “All of you. That fucking doe-eyed kicked-puppy look.”

“What look?” Robbe protested. “I’m not doing anything.”

Sander laughed through his nose again, his cold exterior melting. He reached for Robbe’s face. He traced the curve of Robbe’s cheekbone.

“You are the sweetest fucking thing,” Sander whispered, as if to himself, running his thumb over Robbe’s bottom lip.

Robbe tilted his head up for another kiss.

“I bet no one ever says no to you, do they?” said Sander.

Robbe laughed out loud. What the fuck was Sander talking about? Sander had no idea just how wrong he was. Robbe never got anything he wanted. 

“I’m taking you home,” said Sander, in a tone that brooked no argument. 

“Fine,” said Robbe. “Then stay with me at mine.”

Sander just shook his head with a sad, wistful sort of smile.

“Why not?”

“I can’t.”

“That’s not an answer,” Robbe insisted.

“No, it’s not,” Sander admitted.

“What—do you change into a pumpkin at midnight or something?”

Sander laughed. “Am I Cinderella? If I change into a pumpkin doesn’t that make me the carriage?”

Robbe muttered “fuck off” under his breath, rolling his eyes. He didn’t know much about fairy tales, but he knew the only character Sander could be was the motherfucking prince. 

“I know,” said Robbe. “You change into a werewolf.”

“Wouldn’t it have to be the full moon?” Sander quirked an eyebrow.

“Fine,” Robbe conceded. “I figured it out. I figured you all out, Driesen. You’re a vampire. You’re afraid if I stick around you’ll want to suck my blood.”

“You caught me. I’m a bad, bad guy, Robbe Ijzermans,” said Sander. “You’re a bad idea, and I’m a bad guy. I’m sure you’ve heard all the stories.”

Sander was joking, but Robbe saw something dark move in his eyes.

“Do bad guys always make their victims croques before they hurt them?” teased Robbe.

The corner of Sander’s mouth twisted. “Always.”

Robbe curled his fingers in the front of Sander’s t-shirt, emboldened. “Go on, then,” Robbe said. “Bite me.”

Sander brushed Robbe’s hair away from his face. It was drying slowly, curling at the ends. “You don’t give up, do you, _fire-breather_?”

Robbe gave his most innocent smile. Sander’s fingers lingered on his cheek, and Robbe lifted onto his tip-toes to kiss him.

But Sander stepped back, releasing him. Robbe’s face fell. 

“Come on,” said Sander, without looking at him. “I’m taking you home.”

Silently, Robbe followed Sander to the basement garage and climbed into the passenger seat. Neither of them spoke. Robbe watched the city pass by in blurry striations, traffic lights and shuttered storefronts, televisions in windows and headlights from passing cars. Robbe glanced at Sander sidelong. His profile gave nothing away. He drove efficiently and responsibly, obeying every traffic light, two hands on the wheel. Some inane pop song was playing quietly from the radio. They both ignored it. 

Robbe pressed his cheek against the cold window. He felt almost nauseous. Outside, he watched a woman who looked to be about his mother’s age pause at a stop sign while her dog poked his nose through the grass. 

“Have you ever heard of the multiverse theory?” Robbe asked softly, before he could stop himself.

Robbe could hear the faint laugh in Sander’s voice. It eased the wretched twist in his stomach, just a little bit. “You’re such a stoner boy, aren’t you?”

Robbe watched the woman walk away with her dog, feeling stupid and embarrassed. 

Sander put his hand on top of Robbe’s. Robbe jumped, startled.

“Tell me about the multiverse then, science guy,” said Sander, his thumb swiping reassuringly across Robbe’s knuckles. “You really believe in that?”

“I don’t know,” Robbe shrugged. He could feel Sander’s eyes on his cheek as they waited for the light to turn red. He couldn’t bring himself to look back. “Yeah. I guess.”

The light turned green. Sander released Robbe’s hand. Robbe curled his arms around his waist, hugging himself. The university was in sight, just over the hill. He could see his dormitory hall over the treetops. 

The car pulled to a stop. Robbe didn’t move, and neither did Sander.

“What are we doing in those other universes?” said Sander quietly.

Robbe pulled a thread from his jacket, saying nothing. 

Sander inhaled, as if he meant to say something else, but before he could Robbe unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door.

“Thanks for the ride,” said Robbe.

Sander nodded, once. A knot moved down his throat.

Robbe shut the door behind him and climbed the stairs to his dormitory, feeling worse and worse with every step. He felt so stupid. He had actually thought someone like Sander Driesen wanted to sleep with him. Robbe had thrown himself at him, practically begged him for it. He’d made such a fool of himself.

Feeling sick with humiliation, Robbe stabbed the key into his dorm room. It was silent and dark inside, moonlight spilling onto the floor.

He collapsed onto his bed, still smelling like chlorine and smoke. Still smelling like Sander. He didn’t bother to undress. 

Robbe opened up his phone. He clicked on the Grindr app. He read all of the filthy messages boys had sent to him and fell asleep, still wearing his shoes, without replying to any of them.

—

He stumbled into the kitchen at half past noon, still wearing his clothes from the night before. He was sticking a mug under the Keurig when he heard a throat clear behind him.

Robbe startled, almost dropping the coffee cup. 

Milan smiled at him, his eyes sweeping up and down Robbe’s outfit. 

“Looks like you had fun last night.” Milan smirked. 

Robbe scrubbed his hands over his face, stabbing the buttons on the coffee machine a little too aggressively.

“Or…not,” said Milan, through a mouthful of cereal.

Robbe watched coffee slow fill the mug, dead-eyed. 

“Croissant?” Milan offered brightly, pushing a plate towards him.

Robbe took one with a half-hearted, unconvincing smile, feeling like a dick for being so cold, but he didn’t have the energy for much else. Milan smiled at him sympathetically, gesturing at the seat opposite him.

“I have fifteen minutes, cutie,” said Milan. “Tell me what’s going on.”

Robbe sighed and took his coffee, sitting heavily at the table. Milan pushed a carton of milk at him, not-so-discreetly wrinkling his nose at the amount of sugar Robbe poured in.

“I…hooked up with someone last night,” Robbe said finally. 

“And that’s…bad?”

“We didn’t fuck.”

“Bad, but not terrible,” said Milan. “Who was it?”

Robbe hid his face behind his cup. “Sander Driesen,” he muttered finally.

Milan nearly spat out a mouthful of cereal. “Sander—” Milan stopped short, composing himself. “You hooked up with Sander Driesen?”

Robbe nodded, despondent, stirring his spoon listlessly in his cup.

“And you…didn’t sleep together?” 

Robbe folded his arms on the table and buried his face in them. Milan made a sympathetic clucking sound and petted his hair. 

“Honey,” said Milan. “I’m not gonna lie, I don’t really get it.”

“What’s there to get, Milan?” said Robbe bitterly, his voice half-muffled in the crook of his elbow. “He didn’t want to fuck me. It’s not fucking rocket science.”

“But…you hooked up?”

Robbe nodded miserably, poking numbly at his croissant. “We smoked a joint. We talked. He made me food. He brought me to the roof of his fucking penthouse. We made out naked in a hot tub—”

“I’m sorry—what?” Milan didn’t try to disguise his shock.

“—and then he all but patted me on the head like I was some pathetic mutt he just rescued from the shelter and realized he didn’t want anymore and drove me home. After I fucking threw myself at him like a dumbass.”

Milan nodded, processing the information. Robbe groaned into his hands. 

“Milan, I practically begged for it,” said Robbe. “It was _humiliating._ It was the worst night of my life.”

Milan was quiet for a long moment. Then, hesitantly, he said, “I mean, you did get to make out with Sander Driesen on a penthouse rooftop naked in a hot tub…”

“Not helping,” Robbe muttered darkly, glaring at Milan through his fingers.

Milan held his hands up in surrender. “Okay, okay, I get it. Rejection sucks—we’ve all been there. But…who knows, maybe he was just having an off night. I mean, have you ever talked to him before?”

Robbe shook his head. 

“You barely know him. Maybe he’s got some heavy stuff going on right now—”

“Milan, he sleeps with _everybody._ He’s like the biggest fuck boy in school. And all night he was so…” Robbe drifted off, remembering the way Sander had sought him out. The way he’d held Robbe, how hungrily he’d kissed him. Robbe might’ve been stupid, but he knew when someone wanted him. 

“I don’t get it. I don’t know what I did,” Robbe mumbled, shoving his plate away. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

“Robbe,” said Milan, reaching out to squeeze Robbe’s hands in his own. “Nothing’s wrong with you. Okay? I know—”

“Milan, don’t,” said Robbe, tearing his hands away. He stood up, his chair legs scraping loudly on the floor. “It’s fine.”

“Robbe…”

“Seriously, Milan,” said Robbe. He put his cup in the sink, instantly feeling like an asshole. “I’m sorry, okay? I’m just not in the mood right now.”

He went back to his room and spend the rest of the day trying and failing to his homework. 

The next day he met Jens and the boys at the skate park. Robbe was doing tricks he normally stayed away from: dangerous stuff, stuff that could hurt him. He didn’t care. Moyo skated behind him, trying to get a good angle, when Robbe caught a flash of white-blonde hair across the park. 

Wheels flew out beneath him. Robbe crashed hard. His skateboard rolled down an incline, and Robbe ended up on his hands and knees, licking blood off the heel of his hand. 

“Fuck, Robbe,” said Jens, skidding to a stop behind him. “You good, dude?”

“Fine,” Robbe shrugged. He could barely feel it. His knees might’ve been bleeding through his jeans, but he didn’t care much. 

“You’re sure?” said Jens. “It looked pretty nasty—”

“I said I’m fine, Jens,” said Robbe, harsher than he meant to.

“Alright, alright.” Jens let it go. “Smoke break?”

Robbe nodded. He followed Jens to the bench where their backpacks were, glancing around beneath his hood. 

Sander was directly across from him, sitting under a tree with two friends. He was wearing his leather jacket and a camera around his neck. Robbe looked straight at him. Sander looked back, his ice-blonde hair hidden under his hood. He was holding a can of spray-paint. He held Robbe’s gaze for what felt like hours, stony-faced, revealing nothing, before finally looking away.

“Don’t tell me,” said Jens. “Robbe. You didn’t—”

“What?” said Robbe, finally ripping his gaze away. Jens was shaking his head. 

“Sander?” Jens whisper-shouted. “You hooked up with him, didn’t you?”

Robbe groaned loudly, pulling his beanie low over his eyes. He slumped low in the bench. Between puffs of Jens’s joint, he miserably recounted that night. Jens’ brow knit, looking more and more confused by the second.

“In conclusion, it turns out I’m the most unfuckable person in this entire fucking school,” said Robbe, smiling flatly, before his face fell again.

Jens patted his knee in sympathy. “I dunno, dude. To me it kinda sounds like he likes you.”

Robbe raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Seriously, Jens? That’s your hot take?”

“Uh…yeah? I mean, the way you described it…the kissing, the hot tub, I mean, dude, he cooked for you. Maybe he just doesn’t see you as a one-night kind of thing.”

“But we didn’t even get the one-night!” Robbe protested. “It doesn’t make fucking sense.”

Jens sighed loudly. He offered the last inch of joint to Robbe, who waved it away. His head was fucked-up enough. “I dunno what to tell you. I mean, Sander—you’ve heard the stories about him, man.”

Robbe took off his beanie and ran his hands through his hair. It was almost past his chin now. 

“Wanna go?” said Jens. 

Robbe nodded and stood up.

“You got any water?” Jens’ elbow knocked against his. “I got bad cotton mouth.”

“Think so,” said Robbe, rooting around his backpack. He felt a piece of folded paper.

Robbe pulled it out, frowning. He didn’t recognize the paper: it was creamy and expensive-looking, like something from a sketchbook. 

“What’s that?” Jens looked over his shoulder.

Robbe unfolded it. 

It was a drawing. Delicate charcoal lines. In the center of the paper was a bed, beautifully rendered. In the middle of the bed was Robbe. 

And curled up beside Robbe was Sander. They were sharing the same pillow, sheets pooled around their waists. Robbe’s head was on Sander’s shoulder. Sander’s fingers were playing with his hair. 

The likeness was perfect, down to the curl of Robbe’s hair, the shape of his nose, the curve of his cheekbone. 

Scrawled at the bottom were the words: “In another universe.”

Robbe looked up. His heart was in his throat. 

Sander was gone. 

Jens punched his shoulder lightly, laughing under his breath. “Oh, man. Sander _fucking_ Driesen.”

Robbe swayed a little on his feet, holding the drawing to his chest. 

Sander fucking Driesen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello everyone. yes, i was very certain that i was not gonna write another fic for a while. yes, i am still a very busy grad school student. and yet!!! and yet. here we are
> 
> i started plotting out this fic while i was still writing the hogwarts AU over christmas. very much inspired by robbe casually fire-breathing in the official wtfock trailer, [as seen here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vol8qa1OYzU)
> 
> then i started thinking about sander with tattoos and it was all over for me
> 
> this fic will be five chapters, alternating POVs, so next chapter will be sander's POV
> 
> title is from that stunning, devastating anne carson translation of euripedes's orestes
> 
> thank you all so much again for your INCREDIBLE response to "this rough magic" and all the love you've sent my way. gems, all of you <3
> 
> i cannot WAIT to see what yall think of this one. as always, comments mean the absolute world to me, and of course feel free to say hi on [tumblr @aholynight](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/) xx


	2. Chapter Two

First he dated rich girls. Sander was their bad-boy experiment: a collector’s item, a dangerous thrill you only ride once, a weapon to dangle in front of mommy and daddy.They loved him the way you love any pipe-dream: he was aloof, illusory, cold, a mirror on which to project your dirtiest desires. He was more myth than boy. They loved to parade him on their arm in front of scandalized parents or envious friends. They loved to run their fingers along his tattoos, wanting a tortured tale for each one. Sander got a sick kick out of inventing increasingly grandiose sob stories. From thin air he conjured terminally ill sisters and car crashes and brushes with the law. He was an orphan with a childhood straight out of Dickens. He was the child of famous musicians who killed themselves in an infamous murder-suicide. He was the sole caretaker of his dying mother, he was the abused son of an addict father, he grew up on the streets, feral, hungry, alone. He was wanted in seven countries, he was raised in a traveling circus, he was a foster-system runaway, he was a juvenile delinquent, he was a cage-fighter, a gambler, a fugitive, a thief. 

Most times, hilariously, they believed him. That was fine with Sander. In those days he didn’t need to be understood. He just needed a place to sleep.

—

Sander woke up early most days. Before sunrise. He made coffee and went on long walks, all over the city, camera in hand. He knew all the best rooftops in the city to watch the sunrise. He knew the easiest walls to scale, the apartment buildings without security cameras, the high-rises with the friendliest guards. He’d been like this for as long as he could remember: thin, erratic patchwork sleep, his dreams a curio chest of peculiar grotesqueries. Morning was always came as a relief. His mind was quietest in the languid blue hour before sunrise, cool and still and untroubled. When he was a kid his mom said she never had to wake him up for school. Not once. Every time she went into his bedroom, he was always already awake.

This morning was no different. After he cleaned Senne’s penthouse—a peaceful affair, coffee brewing in Senne’s fancy machine, Bowie playing quietly on the record player—Sander tuned his guitar and played for a while. He made himself breakfast and worked on an art history assignment. He called his mom. He made plans with Senne, who would finally be returning home that night after a long weekend with his girlfriend. He bought lunch. He took his camera with him on a long walk—though he deliberately skirted around the skate park. By dinner his hands were prickling with that familiar itch. He’d resisted all day. He forced himself to stay out: drinks with his bandmates, which turned into more drinks, which turned into one of those nights, like so many others. A trip downtown to visit their drummer’s dealer—Sander didn’t partake, that was not his particular vice—which turned into a show at an underground club which turned into a joyride to the suburbs, some rich girl’s poolhouse, a hundred people Sander didn’t know who all somehow seemed to know him.

A girl—a very pretty girl, dark-haired, black-eyed—had her lips against Sander’s ear. Across the room, some twink with pink hair and too-tight pants was making eyes at him. He closed his eyes. He thought of his ex-girlfriend, Britt, the words she loved to hurl at him, an accusation, a damning prognostication: _Tell me Sander. Why is it that everywhere we go, someone wants to fuck you?_

Britt wasn’t wrong. Sander was not known for his reliability, but in this alone he could always be depended. Such was the comedy of Sander’s life: being eminently fuckable was somehow his only consistency. Fucking was something Sander was good at. Fucking made him useful. It gave his relationships coherence and meaning. Though it took him a long time to learn, he eventually realized that people wanting his body and people wanting _him_ were two very different things. The bad-boy fantasy was one thing. Sander—a human, a fucked-up and complicated organism, dreamy and difficult and impulsive and fragile—was another.

So he left the party. Better to leave before she got him into a room, a closet, a bathroom, when it would be too difficult to stop. He was tired, and his hands were itching unbearably. He took a cab home, with the windows down, feeling too hot in his own skin—the cold felt bracingly good on his cheeks—and when the elevator finally deposited him at Senne’s penthouse he went straight to his room. He opened his desk drawer and pulled out his sketchbook. 

He didn’t bother to take off his shoes or his jacket. He was thirsty. He was starving. But this need subsumed even those. He flipped to the most recent page.

Slowly, Sander fell into the seat at his desk. He drew his finger along the page, tracing the curve of his cheek. Had he gotten his cheekbones right? His nose? The way his eyelashes fanned across his cheeks when he lowered his eyes—that shy look that drove Sander wild, because it intensified that brazen brush of eye contact that much more. Did Sander capture the fall of his hair, how it swept across his forehead and curled, just so, below his ears?

Sander’s hands clenched into fists. He rested his forehead against his desk, grateful for its cool grounding steadiness. He wanted so badly to draw him again. 

His name fluttered across the roof of Sander’s mouth, a petal, reaching, desiring a voice. 

_Robbe._

Sander sat up. He half expected to see Robbe there, on the bed. Sander could visualize him so clearly, so vividly, he was surprised he hadn’t simply manifested there in the room.

But he hadn’t. Of course he hadn’t. Because Sander had pushed him away.

He picked up his pencil and flipped the page. It moved of its own accord, giving shape to the impossibly lovely bow of Robbe’s mouth, the curve of his dimples. Sander was haunted by his face. It was all he saw when he closed his eyes. 

His drawing did not do justice to the real thing. But since Sander couldn’t have the real thing, he would have to settle for this private sanctum in his sketchbook, this insufficient forgery, a pale imitation of that reckless heedless sad-eyed boy, that boy who was nothing but trouble, that impossibly lovely lovely lovely boy. The boy who, if Sander had his way, would never know loneliness again.

—

The next time Sander saw him, they were in the cafe on campus. Robbe was flanked by his friends, the ones he was almost never seen without. They were all different shades of the same organism: Adidas sweatshirts and too-big jackets, Vans on their feet and headphones slung around their necks, skateboards under their arms. Robbe was wearing an oversized grey hoodie. It somehow made him look even smaller, and Sander remembered with a sharp ache the way Robbe’s waist had fit so perfectly in his hands. Robbe’s hair was dark honey, flipping beneath the edge of a burgundy-colored beanie. Sander’s hands itched. He forced himself to look back at his laptop. 

He watched over the rim of his coffee cop as Robbe approached the counter. The barista smiled at him. Sander wished he could hear their conversation. He wanted to know what made Robbe smile as he counted out change from his pocket. He wanted to know what his friends were showing Robbe on their phones, what made him laugh. He wanted to know everything. 

Sander’s phone buzzed in his pocket. 

Senne: _still down for drinks later?_

Sander: _yeah_

Sander: _you’re coming back to your place tonight, right?_

Senne: _was planning to, yea_

Senne _: Unless you’ve got someone spending the night?_

Senne sent a wink. Sander sent back a “hahahaha” with a middle-finger emoji. Senne sent him a kiss emoji. Sander sent one back. They continued this back and forth until a figure moving in his periphery drew his attention.

He looked up. Robbe was at the pick-up counter, waiting for his coffee. He was staring right at Sander.

Sander’s heart did a funny little spasm. Robbe lowered his eyes immediately. One of his friends came up behind him, the tall black-haired one, and clapped Robbe on the shoulder. Robbe flinched, then turned with an easy artificial smile. 

Sander pushed his coffee away. It had gone cold now, anyways. He wanted to run his thumbs along Robbe’s cheeks, draw his lips up into a real smile. His nails dug into his palms. It was his fault Robbe looked so sad. He’d thought the drawing would help. _In another universe._ But maybe he’d only made things worse.

His chair made a loud screech as he stood. He made eye contact with Robbe’s friend, the tall one, who glared at him across the counter. As usual, it appeared as though Sander’s reputation preceded him. 

Sometimes Sander felt like his reputation was a real thing, a body with shape and density, that walked around campus and left imprints in the dirt, a ruined path wherever it stepped. Sometimes Sander felt like it was even more real than he was.

—

It was dark when Sander arrived at he and Senne’s usual haunt: a dark booth in the back of their favorite bar, no one to bother them but the bartender. Senne had already ordered a bunch of food by the time he arrived, most of it left for Sander.

“Eat,” Senne ordered, as Sander slid into the leather seat, shoving his bags down. “You’re still too fucking skinny. How are you so skinny?”

Sander sprawled into the booth, shoving a bunch of fries into his mouth. He threw his legs onto Senne’s lap, who shoved him away unceremoniously. 

“So are we going out after this, or what?” Senne asked, once they’d cleared three rounds of beer and half the appetizer menu. Sander leaned back, licking some sauce off the side of his pinky. Senne had dark shadows under his eyes: he looked tired. 

“Nah,” Sander shrugged. “Let’s just go home.”

They went back to the penthouse. Senne pulled out the good scotch. For the rest of the night they played guitar together, goofy shit they used to listen to when they younger, singing aloud terribly and out-of-tune. Afterwards they played video games late into the night, and it was like they were thirteen again, furious with their families and drinking beer for the first time, sneaking out of windows and getting into mischief, certain of nothing except that the city belonged to them, that they were the only ones who really understood each other, that they were more family than their real family, brothers in the truest sense of the word.

Around 2 AM they finally turned off the video game console, sitting in companionable silence as they finished the last of their drinks. Sander had his arm around on Senne’s shoulders and was flicking him obnoxiously on the cheek when he saw his eyes drifting shut.

Senne slapped his hand half-heartedly. Sander patted Senne’s cheek and stood up.

“Bed time,” said Sander. “Come on, big guy.”

“Bed time,” Senne agreed.

“You coming to bed with me?” Sander said cheekily. 

Senne winked at him. Sander laughed. He wasn’t attracted to Senne like that, but Sander couldn’t help but flirt with him. He flirted with everybody. They were the same kind of flirt: never serious but relentless, always one-upping each other. Back when Senne was still single, flirting was like a game to them: though neither of them had to try hard to bring someone home with them, they liked challenging themselves with increasingly elaborate courting rituals. 

This was one of Sander’s favorite things about Senne: Sander could be completely himself, and he knew no matter what, Senne would never misinterpret him, would never project anything other than pure brotherly love onto him, would never mistake Sander’s cheeky antics as anything other than Sander being himself. Sometimes it seemed like Senne was the only person in the world who didn’t want Sander _like that_ , and he couldn’t quite stress how much of a relief this was to him: everywhere Sander went it seemed like somebody desired him, wanted to tame him, wanted to make Sander theirs. 

That’s what made Senne like home, like family. Senne was the only person in the entire world Sander trusted unequivocally, and Sander knew Senne felt the same way about him. Senne knew exactly what Sander felt like, because he’d experienced it too: before Zoe, everyone was always chasing after Senne, his car, his money, his fuck-boy good-looks. He was the ultimate challenge: everyone wanted to be the one to finally conquer him. Senne and Sander used to joke that the only ones who understood how goofy and soft-hearted they actually were were each other. 

They brought their glasses and crumb-covered plates to the sink. Senne filled water glasses for them under the faucet.

“You good?” Senne asked, elbowing Sander gently in the side. 

“Yeah.” Sander shrugged.

“Sander,” said Senne, eyebrow raised, leaning back against the kitchen counter. “Come on. I know you—something’s up. Just tell me.”

It was true. Senne was the only person who Sander couldn’t hide anything from.

Sander stared into his water glass, admiring the way it distorted his reflection. Senne waited, patient as ever.

“…I want something,” Sander admitted finally. “But I don’t think I can have it.”

Senne snorted. “When has that ever stopped you from getting what you want?”

The corner of Sander’s mouth lifted: a bitter, crooked not-smile. Maybe that was the problem. Sander was intense: when he wanted something he couldn’t stop himself from pursuing it. Fuck the consequences. Senne was the same. Sander still remember how Senne was when he was falling for Zoe: unstoppable, singularly-focused, completely consumed until he won her over. He knew she was the one.

Sander and Senne were alike in so many ways. But there was one crucial difference: Senne played the bad-boy, but he wasn’t. Being with Senne wasn’t anything like being with Sander. Senne was safe. He was stable and solid and goodhearted. 

Sander wasn’t like that. Sander was a grenade.

—

Fridays were his busiest days. He spent his morning and afternoon in back-to-back classes. His first block was an art history class. After lunch he had painting. He hated everything he painted these days. The models failed to inspire him. Nothing ignited that spark, nothing made his hands itch in that unbearable but addictive way. Every stroke he painted wanted to curve into Robbe’s cheekbones, Robbe’s mouth, Robbe’s eyes and jawline and throat. 

So he stopped resisting. When the professor announced that class was over, Sander was the first to leave.

He moved through campus, ignoring the hundreds of eyes that followed him, trying to catch his attention, calling his name. He brushed past a horde of girls he knew well, Noor among them. 

He went to the skatepark.

Sander already knew he’d be there. Robbe went there every Friday, like clockwork, always surrounded by the same group of boys, drinking the same shitty beer, wearing nearly the same clothes. 

Today Robbe wore an over-sized white t-shirt with a black long-sleeved shirt underneath. He wasn’t wearing his beanie, and his hair looked wind-swept, wild and messy. Sander wanted to see what his hair looked like spilled across his pillow. Sander wanted to see what kind of sounds Robbe would make if Sander twisted his hair between his fingers and _pulled._

Robbe’s friends were cheering him on. Robbe was perched at the edge of a treacherous-looking half pipe. His friends were gathered at the bottom, cat-calling and shouting, their phones poised and ready.

Sander took out his camera, unable to resist. He wanted to capture the look on Robbe’s face: devil-may care, cool, quietly arrogant. A little demigod at the seat of his throne, surveying his kingdom.

Robbe sucked his bottom lip into his mouth, tense with concentration. He looked oblivious to the cameras below him, his friends’ cheering, all of it. To Sander he looked perfectly in his element: a force to be reckoned with.

And then, miraculously, Robbe looked at him. Sander lowered his camera. A second turned into a hour turned into a lifetime. Robbe’s gaze remained cool and stony, revealing nothing. 

Then he looked away, his skateboard balanced on a knife-edge, and raced down the pipe. For what felt like hours, Robbe was airborne, the skateboard flipping beneath him. 

And then Robbe landed, perfectly. His friends were so loud that half the skatepark was watching them now as they piled on top of Robbe, congratulatory. Sander bit back a smile. 

At least another hour passed like this: Sander taking photos of the skate park, his hood up, daring anyone to speak to him. Robbe and his friends remained in his periphery: Robbe continuing to nail perfect tricks and kickflips, his friends capturing it all on video, more cheap beers thrown back, more bags of junk food passed from one to the other.

It was sunset when Sander found his usual tree. He was texting Senne when a shadow fell over him.

He looked up.

It was Robbe. Sunlight made a gilded crown of his hair. His face was dark, inscrutable. But Sander had studied his eyes enough to see something edgy and anxious move through them. 

“Can I see them?” Robbe asked.

Sander climbed to his feet. Robbe took a step back, as if unconsciously. Sander bridged the gap between them. He saw a knot move nervously down Robbe’s throat.

“See what?” said Sander, cocking his head. 

Robbe bit his lip. He looked as though he were losing his nerve.

“Your photos,” said Robbe quietly. “I know you took some.”

“Of you?” Sander huffed a laugh through his nose. 

Robbe tilted his chin up, something hard glinting in his eyes, as if steeling himself. 

“I didn’t take any photos of you,” said Sander.

Robbe’s face fell, almost imperceptibly, but Sander saw everything. 

Robbe drew his bottom lip into his mouth, a muscle leaping in his jaw. Sander wanted to cradle Robbe’s face in his hands, to smooth out all of its worry lines. 

But he didn’t. He couldn’t. It had to be like this. The colder Sander was, the more likely Robbe would stay away from him. Sander could only resist so much on his own. If Robbe avoided him, it would make his job much easier.

“Anything else?” Sander asked. 

Robbe leveled him with a cool, empty smile. “Nope. I got everything I needed.”

“Good,” said Sander. Their shoulders knocked together as Sander passed. Nausea rose and fell in stomach. His heart slammed against his ribcage, furious as a batteram. He felt sick. He was sick. His hands flexed in his pockets, itching, searching, wanting a weapon, a handful of pills, something poisonous to flood his brain with, to make him forget he inhabited this cruel, dangerous, hateful body, with its sick, destructive mind.

His phone vibrated in his pocket as he approached Senne’s building. 

It was his mom. Sander answered, trying to disguise how wretched he felt. 

“Are we still getting dinner on Sunday?” she asked.

Sander slumped against the wall in Senne’s elevator, avoiding his reflection in the mirror. 

“Is he gonna be there?” Sander asked.

“Who?” she said, playing dumb. 

Sander pinched the bridge of his nose. _Don’t get angry, don’t get angry, don’t get angry—_

“You know who,” Sander intoned. 

He could hear his mother’s long-suffering sigh on the other end of the phone. Sander held his breath.

Finally, she said, “Sander, baby. Are you gonna be mad at your dad forever?”

Something crunched inside of him, a constriction of lung and bone and muscle, sharpening to a knifepoint. His nails bit into his palms so deeply he was surprised he didn’t draw blood.

“Sander?”

The elevator doors opened. Sander threw his bags into the hallway. He could hear Senne moving in the kitchen, the smelling of something cooking in the oven. Sander inhaled. The fact of Senne—safe and stable and domestic in the kitchen—was enough to ground him.

He drew a deep breath.

“I love you, Mama,” Sander exhaled. “Maybe we can get dinner another time.”

Senne’s head peaked out from the kitchen, his eyebrows raised, concerned. Sander shook his head.

“Sander, please—” his Mama started

“Let me know when you get some dignity, alright?” Sander finished coldly, before hanging up the phone. 

Senne went back to the kitchen and returned again with a beer. 

“Drink it,” said Senne. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

Sander collapsed at the table. At least Senne wasn’t pitying him—but of course he didn’t, Senne never did, and Sander promised to do the same for him. They ate their dinner and drank their beers and put on a record.

“Let’s get fucked up tonight, yeah?” said Senne, clinking his beer against Sander’s, his eyes dark and knowing and intent on giving Sander exactly the kind of night he needed.

Sander offered his wickedest grin.

—

It didn’t take them long to find a party: this one was at Luka’s house, full of finance bros and rich kids, but Sander didn’t care. He was unlikely to run into Robbe at a party like this, and that was all that mattered to him. 

The living room was dark, a shadowy creature, alive and pulsating with bodies and strobe lights, the space throbbing and dangerous and sticky-hot. The music was heavy, a deep thumping electric bass line Sander felt all the way down to his toes. He was halfway to shit-faced already, with lipstick stains from at least three different girls on his neck. 

He’d lost Senne a while ago and was trying to find him again. Sander weaved past grasping hands and hips knocking into each other, tugs at his sleeve and drinks tilting precariously over the edge of plastic cups.

It was a big house. Half of the party had spilled into the yard. Sander managed to slip through the back yard, where hordes of people were smoking. It looked like the early stages of an orgy were beginning in the garden. Sander scanned the faces, unable to find Senne. He went through the back gate around the side of the house, past the dumpsters until he reached the front yard. 

Lights from inside the house made long, nightmarish shadows across the yard. He could hear the music inside, a muted, pulsing, electronic thrum. 

Senne was nowhere to be found. 

Sander turned into a hidden corner of the yard, a gazebo hidden under a thatch of overgrown flowers and trees, hoping to at least get a minute or two of solace from the party. He fished into the pockets of his leather jacket for his carton of cigarettes, where he kept a handful of pre-rolled joints inside. 

He stepped into the gazebo, still rooting around his pockets for a lighter, when a flicker of movement caught his eye.

Sander looked up, startled. 

It was him. Of course it was him.

Robbe was hidden in shadow, his silhouette limned in moonlight, like a soft, gauzy apparition. Strobe lights from the house danced across his face. 

Sander stepped closer. Robbe had a half-smoked joint between his fingers, though it was drooping, as if he’d forgotten to actually smoke it. Robbe’s head fell back against the wall of the gazebo, and only then did Sander realize just how fucked-up he was. Robbe’s eyes were so dark they were reflective, glassy and red-rimmed. The lost expression in Robbe’s eyes opened a new ache between Sander’s ribs. Robbe’s cheeks were flushed from the cold, his mouth chapped and pink and _fuck—_ Sander just wanted to bite it, and then soothe his bite with a kiss. 

It was clear that Robbe had drunk himself to oblivion. His head lolled on his shoulder. He was wearing a too-big sweatshirt. The collar gaped open: Sander wanted nothing more than to put his mouth on Robbe’s collarbone, the delicious curve where his neck met his shoulder. 

But more than anything, he wanted to gather Robbe in his arms and put him to bed. Sander wanted to fuck Robbe, of course, but even deeper was his need to hold Robbe afterwards, to kiss him until that broken look in his eyes disappeared, to stroke his hair and run his lips along his cheek. 

“You,” Robbe whispered, and before Sander could do anything Robbe was on his feet, stumbling towards him.

Sander put his hands on Robbe’s shoulders, just to steady him. Robbe looked so _gone._ He was searching Sander’s face like he was trying to figure out if Sander was real. He looked exactly the way he’d looked a few parties ago, when he’d stumbled out of the bathroom drunk and dazed and smelling of fire, when he’d stared dazedly at Sander and immediately tried to kiss him. 

Gently, so gently, Robbe ran his fingers down the side of Sander’s face. Sander’s breath caught in his throat. It took every inch of his will power not to kiss Robbe’s fingers, to take his wrist and tug him into a kiss.

Robbe’s fingers fell from Sander’s cheek to the front of his leather jacket, holding it like an anchor. They were so _close._ Sander could smell him: Robbe smelled like weed and cigarettes and cheap beer, like a bonfire, like the woods at night, like _boy._

Sander closed his eyes, his hands curling into fists at his side. He could feel Robbe’s heat against him. He could hear him breathing. 

He wanted so badly to taste him. He wondered what dangers Robbe had been up to that night, what self-destructive behavior he’d toyed with. Sander wanted to know if he kissed him, if Robbe would taste like fire.

Or would it be like that night on the rooftop, that explosive kiss, that body-melting kiss, when Robbe had opened for him so easily, and inside he’d tasted like chlorine and candy, gin and soda, like starlight on a rooftop, like _trouble—_

Robbe leaned up on his tip-toes, his fingers curling in the front of Sander’s leather jacket, and brushed their lips together.

_No._

Sander pushed him back, and Robbe stumbled. Sander’s heart was in his throat. He watched as Robbe swayed a little on his feet, his eyes closed. Slowly, slowly, Robbe brought his fingers to his mouth. His hair curtained in front of his face. 

Inside, it sounded like glass was breaking. Sander turned around. When he faced Robbe again, he was sitting back on the gazebo bench, his head in his hands. 

Sander’s stomach twisted. He never should’ve kissed Robbe on that rooftop. He never should’ve spoken to him at all. He’d promised himself he’d never go near him, the devastatingly lovely brown-eyed boy, the wild fire-breathing boy, and now look at them. Sander had tried so hard not to go near him, to keep his destructive hands as far away as possible, and yet here they were. Without even trying, Sander had already ruined him.

He backed away. He needed to find Senne and leave. Sander needed to get as far away from him as possible before he broke Robbe even worse.

“Why don’t you want me?” 

Robbe’s voice was barely louder than a whisper, hoarse and rough-edged, like he’d been smoking too much. 

Sander gripped the edge of the gazebo. A wreath of flowers spilled over the side. He plucked a petal and watched it drift slowly to the ground. Finally, he looked at Robbe. 

“Please, just tell me,” said Robbe. His words slurred only a little. “Just tell me. I’ll—I’ll leave you alone. I just want to know. I just—I just want to know what’s wrong with me—”

Sander closed his eyes. His chest hurt so acutely it nearly brought him to his knees.

“ _Please—”_ Robbe started again, but he fell silent when Sander stepped forward. He got to his feet, reaching for Sander again, and this time, Sander didn’t push him away. 

He could smell the alcohol on Robbe’s breath. Robbe was so drunk. He needed someone to take him home. 

“Please,” Robbe tried again, gripping the front of his jacket. 

“I’d ruin you,” said Sander. 

Robbe shook his head. He leaned up on his tip-toes again—relentless and reckless and foolhardy as ever—until their lips were a breath away. 

“Then ruin me,” he said, without even a sliver of irony, and Sander shook his head, letting their foreheads tip together, Robbe’s mouth brushing helplessly against his cheek.

No fucking way. Robbe needed to go home. He needed to get as far away from Sander as possible. 

He looped an arm around Robbe’s waist and led him from the gazebo across the yard. Robbe leaned most of his weight against him, still gripping Sander’s jacket. Eventually Sander found the rest of the party, in the backyard. He recognized Robbe’s friends as the ones with their phones out, filming some guy shotgunning a beer. 

Sander found the tall black-haired one and pulled him from the crowd by the elbow.

“Is this yours?” said Sander, trying to hand Robbe off to him. 

“Jens, don’t make me go home, I don’t wanna go home…” Robbe was mumbling under his breath. 

Jens stared at them both, looking just as gone as Robbe. Then he burst out laughing, a stupid, spacey sort of laugh. 

This was just Sander’s luck. Jens was clearly tripping on something. So were all over Robbe’s other friends. 

“Hey…” piped one of the others from the crowd, the one Sander thought was called Moyo. “Look! It’s Jack Frost!”

“Great,” Sander muttered under his breath, grabbing Robbe by the elbow. Looked like Robbe was his responsibility now. 

Sander dragged him back to the front of the house. “Come. We’re leaving.” 

Robbe stumbled after him to the foot of the driveway. Sander ordered a car from an app and guided Robbe inside when it arrived, worried he might be sick in the back seat.

But Robbe didn’t get sick. He just leaned against Sander’s side, his head on his shoulder, his impossibly soft hair tickling Sander’s neck. Sander tipped his head back against the seat, laughing dryly to himself. He dared a glance at Robbe’s face. He was half-asleep, his eyelashes casting long shadows against his cheeks, his mouth parted a little. He snuggled even deeper into Sander’s arms.

Sander closed his eyes.

This boy was going to kill him one of these days.

When they arrived on campus, Sander gently shook him awake. Robbe was conscious enough to lead them to his dormitory, though Sander had to help him get the key inside the door.

Robbe stumbled inside. Sander followed him.

It was a small room. On the window was a single plant, its leaves a little wilted. There was a messy stack of books on Robbe’s desk, an opened notebook filled with messy boyish handwriting. At the foot of his bed was a rumpled sweater, a couple different pairs of Vans. Propped against the wall was his skateboard, and Sander could just make out the shape of a surfboard in Robbe’s closet. The walls were almost entirely bare. No photos, no hint of a family. 

Sander’s stomach gave another jerk. Folded on Robbe’s bedside table was the drawing Sander left for him. _In another universe._

Robbe sat down heavily on his bed, trying and failing to take off his shoes. He fell back into his sheets with a frustrated sound. 

Sander sat at the foot of his bed, carefully moving Robbe’s legs into his lap. He untied Robbe’s shoes and took them off. Robbe was watching him with that terrible longing expression. Sander gripped Robbe’s ankle, running his thumb along the bone. Robbe still had his pants on, and his too-big sweatshirt. Sander ran a single finger up Robbe’s calf, to his knee. 

Robbe reached for him, pulling Sander closer. He was still so, so drunk. 

“ _Please,_ ” Robbe breathed. “Please stay?”

Sander pushed Robbe back against the bed, until his head met the pillow. Sander leaned over him, unable to stop himself from brushing his lips against Robbe’s forehead. Then he pulled the covers up to Robbe’s chin and left.

He leaned against the closer door. The dormitory hallway was entirely empty, florescent lights and music playing quietly, the murmur of voices, studying, spoons inside tea cups. He pressed his ear against Robbe’s door, listening to the silence inside his room until his stomach had twisted itself into a painful knot. And then he left. 

—

An entire week went by before Sander saw him again.

A few girls from Sander’s painting class were throwing some giant fundraiser—something about climate change, or conservation, Sander wasn’t sure—and they’d ask his band to play at the party. Sander and his band mates showed up just as the party was beginning to kick off: kegs in the yard, beer pong tables, hordes upon hordes of freshman girls and boys trading handles of vodka back and forth. 

He and the rest of the band were in the living room, tuning their guitars and setting up amps. His drummer stuck a joint in Sander’s mouth and lit the wick. Sander winked at him. More and more people continued to spill into the house from every direction. Sander took a long pull from the joint and looked up as he heard a trio of girls loudly squeal as the front door opened, and another dozen people filed into the hallway. 

Sander spotted a familiar head immediately. Robbe’s hair swept to the side, his smile loose and easy. Moyo and Jens were right behind him, plus another boy Sander didn’t recognize. 

Smoke spilled from Sander’s mouth. He narrowed his eyes. This boy had his arm around Robbe’s waist, and he was whispering something into Robbe’s ear. Robbe laughed, though he was glancing around, a little uneasily.

Sander’s stomach sank. This was a date. Of course this was a date. 

Just as the full gut-punch of this realization hit him, Robbe’s eyes found his. Sander took another long pull from the joint, arranging his face carefully into its practiced icy aloofness, before passing the joint to his drummer. The four of them got to their feet. With a screech of mic feedback and a few furious opening notes, they launched into their first song, and Sander felt the familiar voltage crackle of his limbs as he started to play, a furious live-wire thrill shivering through him as the lights dimmed around them, a hundred eyes turning to face them, a mess of dancing colored lights and bobbing heads, a whole chorus of voices joining them as they sang familiar songs: The Stooges, Velvet Underground, The Rolling Stones, and of course, as always David Bowie. The house had a two-story living room, cavernous ceilings with great acoustics, and dozens of people were crowded upstairs, hanging over the bannister, dancing. 

Halfway through the set, Sander quit playing guitar to sing. He sweat through his shirt and threw it somewhere into the living room. Heat swam through his limbs, engulfing him, engulfing everything around him, loosening every screw in his body, unhinging him so effectively he was afraid of what might come out: a tempest, a thunder crack, a natural disaster. The house around him seemed to sway, the bodies moving with every note he sang, in thrall. 

He felt good. He felt dangerous. Hungry, rabid.

His gaze traveling across the room, slowly, drinking it in. And then he stopped. 

Robbe was in the kitchen, propped on the counter. The boy— _his date—_ had his hands on Robbe’s thighs. The minute Sander locked eyes with Robbe, Robbe took his date’s face in his hands and kissed him.

His eyes never left Sander’s.

A vicious, wrathful jealousy seized Sander’s stomach, jerking him so suddenly he nearly felt sick.

He turned to his guitar-player, Max, lost in a gorgeous, crescendoing guitar solo. Sander pressed himself against Max’s back, slick with sweat—they’d all lost their shirts a long time ago—and flashed a wicked grin to the crowd. They did this flirtatious dance a lot, he and Max. Sander gripped Max’s hips from behind and leaned forward to kiss Max’s cheek. 

Robbe’s eyes were still pinned to Sander’s.

Max turned his face towards Sander so their lips met. Sander took Max’s face in his hands and kissed him, a dirty, theatrical, open-mouthed sort of kiss, ignoring the roar of cheering and catcalling and scandalized laughter in the audience, unable to focus on anything but Robbe’s eyes on his. 

Something burned inside Sander. The boy’s hands were on Robbe’s waist now, sneaking under his shirt. 

Sander grabbed Max by the collar and yanked him into one last filthy kiss before shoving him away. He pulled the mic towards him with a flourish and muttered, “Thanks everyone. Show’s over.”

A storm was still brewing inside him, even as he wove through the crowd, only half-listening to the flattering and fawning and claps on the shoulder he received. Pop music began to spill from the speakers. Sander ran his hand through his hair, drawing into sweaty spikes as he grew closer and closer to the kitchen. 

Max appeared at his shoulder. He patted his pocket, which Sander knew contained a little baggie of coke. “You okay, man? Need a bump?”

For a minute Sander felt so wild that he almost said yes. Instead he turned Max down and shoved his way into the kitchen under the guise of hunting down something to drink.

But when he got there, Robbe was gone. Sander looked around.

He finally found Robbe in the hallway. Sander could see his date closer now—he was tall and blonde and looked to be in his mid-twenties at least, with bad patchy facial hair and a baseball cap and an overall sliminess that Sander hated instantly. He had his hand on the small of Robbe’s back as he guided him through the hallway, presumably to a more private room.

“So who’s that again?” Sander heard a familiar voice behind him. He turned and saw Jens and Moyo illuminated by the glow of the refrigerator as they searched for beer.

“Dunno. I think Robbe found him on Grindr,” Jens replied.

Moyo pulled a face. “He seems kinda gross, right?”

Sander couldn’t listen any more. He grabbed the bottle nearest him—vodka—and slammed back a shot, and then another, in quick succession. He shot Jens a dark look over his shoulder before leaving the kitchen.

He wished Senne were here. Sander felt too wild, too unstable. He didn’t trust himself not to do something stupid. 

Sander headed towards the hallway, unable to stop himself. He expected Robbe and his date to have disappeared by now, but they were in exactly the same spot as before. The boy was trying to pull Robbe into a bathroom, and Robbe looked like he was trying to push him away.

Finally, Robbe shook the dude off. The second he was free he straightened his jacket and hurried out of the hallway, past Sander, knocking his shoulder against him. 

The boy went after Robbe as he headed towards the front door. 

Sander followed them outside. The only other people on the lawn were a couple, making out so heavily they didn’t seem to notice anything else. The couple were sitting on a window sill, flanked by empty beer bottles.

Light from the house spilled onto the front yard. The door clattered shut behind Sander. 

The boy had Robbe by the wrist and was pulling him towards the side of the house. Robbe was struggling to free himself, and they were shouting at each other, their voices overlapping so Sander couldn’t make out any words other than “stop it” and “fuck off” and “let me go.”

So Sander did what Sander did best. He acted on impulse.

Before he fully realized what he was doing, he’d already taken the beer bottle nearest him and smashed it against the brick wall. 

Both boys immediately stopped at the sound of breaking glass. Robbe’s eyes were huge as saucers when he saw that it was Sander.

Sander took a step closer. Robbe’s date looked down at the broken beer bottle in Sander’s hands, and then into his face.

“Aren’t you the dude that was just singing?”

“Yeah,” said Sander, swinging the bottle idly in his hands. He took another step closer. “And you’re the dude that’s leaving. Right now.”

“Excuse me?” said Robbe’s date. “Robbe, do you know this guy?”

“Sander, _don’t_ —” said Robbe fiercely, still trying to yank himself free, but the boy held him tight.

Sander looked at the tall, greasy-looking blonde still holding Robbe tightly. “He wants you to let him go.” 

“This isn’t your business,” said the boy.

“Let him go,” said Sander, his voice dangerously soft, examining the broken bottle with casual indifference. “I’m not going to ask again.”

“You know what?” said the boy, finally releasing Robbe, who stumbled backwards, wide-eyed. “I thought this fuckin’ twink brought me here to show me a good time, but he’s more trouble than he’s worth. You can have him,” he spat.

Neither Sander nor Robbe watched him leave. They stood in the strange silence, listening to wind move through the trees, the sound of tire wheels squealing furiously on asphalt, muted pop music pounding indoors. 

Robbe opened his mouth like he wanted to say something. Sander took a step towards him, then another, not knowing what he would say when he finally had Robbe in his arms, but knowing he had to at least try _something, anything—_

But before he could Robbe turned on his heel and was heading back towards the house. 

“Robbe, wait—”

Sander chased him through the front door, through the maze of the party, ignoring every grabbing hand, every voice vying for his attention. He followed Robbe through the back patio, past a keg stand and a bonfire and a dozen different drinking games, past a burgeoning threesome developing on a hammock, past the back gate and into the silent suburban street outside, where Robbe picked up a skateboard propped against the fence and began racing down the street.

“Robbe!” Sander sprinted after him, past cars in driveways, families watching television behind living room windows, trees as tall as mountains canopied over the wide, moonlit street. “Robbe, please—”

Finally, Robbe wheeled to a stop and spun around, furiously, his skateboard still poised under his heel. 

“What?” he demanded.

Sander panted, trying to catch his breath. There was a bruise visible on Robbe’s neck. Sander looked down, surprised to find that his hands were shaking.

“What do you wanna say?” said Robbe. 

Misery gnawed at him. He closed the distance between them, carefully, cautiously, his chest still heaving. He didn’t know what he wanted to say. He hadn’t planned for this. He hadn’t planned any part of Robbe Ijzermans. None of Sander’s defenses were working, none of his armor had any effect on him. Sander had fired every bullet he had, but Robbe had dodged each and every one of them. If Sander had known ages ago that a pair of guileless doe-eyes would be the thing that finally brought him down, he would’ve planned his ramparts much differently.

But how could he have prepared for Robbe? Nobody had ever affected Sander like this before.

“Look, just…just stop it. Okay?” Robbe pleaded. “I don’t know what you’re doing with me but just…stop. Okay? Just stop. Either be straight with me or leave me alone because I can’t…” Robbe’s voice broke, ever so slightly. He sounded so _tired._ “I can’t take this anymore.”

Sander just shook his head. A lump bobbed in his throat. “Robbe…”

“I don’t get you,” Robbe cut him off.

“What don’t you get?” Sander asked, his voice echoing strangely on the dark, empty street.

“You,” said Robbe. “You just…you just fuck with people, you mess with them. It’s like it’s fun for you, treating people like playthings, like toys. But then—” Robbe broke off. His head tilted upwards. He closed his eyes. “The other night…you took me home, I know, I know it was you, and now, this, that, whatever that was, here—” Robbe waved his hand towards the direction they just came from, “—I don’t get it. I don’t understand.”

Sander said nothing. He took another step towards Robbe. Far away, a dog was barking. A car was starting. In another driveway, an engine cut. Robbe hugged himself around the middle, looking confused and furious and scared. Sander had never wanted to kiss someone so badly in his entire life.

“Why me?” Robbe sounded so broken. “I know you don’t want me. So why…why can’t you let me just—”

“Were you going to let that guy fuck you?” said Sander.

Robbe’s face twisted. “That’s none of your fucking business,” he spat. “ _Fuck._ You know what?” he laughed, bitterly. “You almost fooled me into thinking you were something besides a dickhead fuck-boy who gets off on making people feel like shit. I bought your whole thing, because I’m fucking stupid, I’m a certified idiot, I’m the biggest dumbass in this entire stupid piece of shit school and you know what, that’s on me. But you? Sander, you’re just _cruel._ I do stupid shit sometimes, stuff that hurts me, but at least I don’t get my fucking rocks off hurting other people.”

“I don’t like hurting other people,” said Sander, shaking his head, desperately, frantically, needing Robbe to understand, “Robbe, I don’t want to hurt you. I don’t want to see you get hurt, period. That’s why I—that’s why—”

Robbe just shook his head wretchedly, backing away from Sander. “Please just stop…”

The misery in Robbe’s eyes hit Sander like a gut-punch. Sander knew what he had to do. Robbe was already so lost, looking for anything to anchor him. Robbe might’ve believed that Sander was that thing, but he wasn’t. Sander wasn’t the anchor: he’s the fucking iceberg that brings it all down

“You know what?” said Sander. “You’re right. Everything you said is right. I’m bad. I’m nothing but bad. I’m bad all the way down. And if you’re smart, you should stay away from me. Just stay away from me, please, okay?”

“ _If I’m smart I should_ …” Robbe repeated Sander’s words back to him, quietly, furiously, shaking his head in disbelief, “Sander, you fucking asshole, _you_ came after _me—”_

Sander threw his hands up, as if in surrender. “And now I’m leaving,” he said, backing away, “Just like you asked.”

Robbe made an enraged sound. And before Sander knew what was happening, Robbe was inches away from him, Sander’s leather jacket curled in his fists, yanking Sander’s mouth to his. 

Sander pushed Robbe away. Robbe stumbled backwards, though he still held onto Sander’s jacket.

“What are you doing…” Sander breathed. Blood roared in Sander’s ears. He could hardly hear anything over the jackhammer of his heart.

Robbe tugged Sander by the front of his jacket. 

“I’m being stupid,” he murmured. And then, before Sander could catch his breath, Robbe pulled him into a kiss.

Sander had wondered what his body would do when he finally let it unhinge. He’d been terrified of it. All of his monsters sealed in tight, let loose, roaming free, wreaking havoc of his heart, his mind, his life, and worse, the lives of everyone around him. Sander worked so hard to keep the storm of himself contained. At least that way, he could only hurt himself.

But this feeling fluttering against his chest, rattling the gates of his ribcage, was nothing like a monster. He didn’t know what this was—he’d never felt it before. All Sander knew as he backed Robbe into the nearest tree, his hands cupping Robbe’s head protectively as he pushed him against the trunk, exploring every inch of Robbe’s mouth, tasting him, finally, _finally,_ that this feeling, sweet and addictive and _terrifying_ in its intensity, was all Robbe’s doing. Sander had forgotten that there was a real boy under all his layers of sharp armor. He was just waiting for the one boy—a brave boy, a reckless boy, a fire-breathing boy—who dared to get close enough to pry Sander loose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first of all i just want to say that you all are absolute fucking sweethearts and your response to the last chapter is truly keeping me afloat right now as i suffer through all my grad school work. so thank you thank you thank you xx
> 
> please let me know what you thought of this chapter <3 i've got another busy busy busy week ahead of me but i'll try to keep these updates as regular as i can. we're back to robbe's POV in the next chapter 
> 
> as always, feel free to stop by and say hi [on tumblr @aholynight](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter Three

It was high school when Robbe began to slip too far into his own wilderness, losing himself in the thickets of all his worst ideas. He came home too late with his knees and elbows scraped raw from skating injuries, his lungs and his throat torn-up from too much smoke, his head pounding and heavy from too many drinks. Robbe never knew when to stop: or, to be precise, he _did_ know when to stop, he just didn’t want to. Or to be even more precise, he wanted to see how far he could go until someone cared to notice that he was _gone._ Until someone asked, _hey, Robbe, are you alright? Robbe are you okay let’s take you home Robbe I’ll take care of you_ —

No one ever asked. So Robbe kept going.

Enough nights of this, enough early mornings finally stumbling home, and his dad eventually confronted him. It went poorly. It always went poorly. Robbe and his dad didn’t know how to talk to each other without yelling. But Robbe still lived in his house, under his roof, and so he’d go to the counselor or else. (‘Or else _what?_ ’ Robbe demanded, at the foot of the stairs, his dad red-faced and white-knuckled at the top step, slowly descending.)

Robbe hated the counselor. He hated the fish bowl in the corner and the pale blue walls and the ugly carpet and the pink-framed glasses she wore. He hated the way she never raised her voice. He hated the way he knew, deep deep down in some underground part of himself, that everything she said was right. 

“Robbe why do you keep doing things that are bad for you?” 

He could still picture her now, saying these words to him, her pink-framed glasses at the end of her nose. Like she was calling to him from the end of a long hallway, a pinprick tiny as a cameo photo at the end. 

But that voice was receding dimmer and dimmer by the second. Because Sander Driesen was kissing him. Sander Driesen was kissing him and there was no room for anything else. Sander Driesen was kissing him and it was reconfiguring Robbe’s entire sensory memory. Had anyone else ever kissed Robbe? Had anyone else ever touched him? Or was there only this?

Sander Driesen looked like a poison-apple wrapped in barbed wire and he was the best thing Robbe had ever tasted. Sander Driesen looked like the last horseman of the apocalypse and Robbe was the only soul left on earth. Sander Driesen looked like every drug Robbe had ever taken, every burning flask of liquor he’d ever emptied into his throat, every bad idea Robbe had ever had.

But looks, Robbe was learning, were unintelligible on their own. Beneath Sander’s fearsomely beautiful surface was a safe harbor. He held Robbe so tightly, so protectively, so carefully. And in the sanctuary of his arms was a kiss like an antidote, like benediction, a safety net. 

He could hear his counselor’s voice echoing dimly in the cloudy corridor of his brain. Robbe. _Robbe, why do you keep doing things that are bad for you?_

Sander broke the kiss. They were still standing on the moonlit suburban street, Robbe’s skateboard abandoned on a side walk, Robbe’s back against a tree, Sander cupping Robbe’s face in his hands like it was precious, _him, Robbe_ , precious—

Robbe pushed his face into Sander’s neck, and Sander held him tighter, tighter, tighter. Sander Driesen looked like a weapon. But _this_ , Robbe thought, was the safest he’d ever felt.

—

“What’re you thinking about?” Robbe whispered.

It was the next morning. Sander’s room was like a dark blue jewel, the hour just before sunrise, everything quiet, everything still, like Robbe and Sander were the only people awake in the entire world. 

Sander was running his fingers across the bones of Robbe’s face with his clever artist’s hands, mapping him out, as if drawing the cartography of Robbe’s face in his mind. 

“I’m thinking, _Love descends on those defenseless. Idiot love will spark the fusion—”_

Sander launched into a theatrical David Bowie impression, and Robbe laughed, pulling him close to kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, like a junkie getting his fix. 

“Still think I’m a bad idea?” Robbe teased, rolling Sander over so he could straddle his lap. Miles and miles of art spread out on the sheets, red and blue ink, gold and silver, and rivers of smooth golden skin curving deliciously between each tattoo. Sander bit his lip, his eyes traveling lazily up and down Robbe’s body, taking his time, until Robbe’s stomach was a mess of butterflies. 

“You’re the worst idea I’ve ever had,” Sander whispered, leaning up on his elbows. And then, his mouth a breath away, “I think you might be my masterpiece.”

Sander flipped Robbe over onto the bed, and they kissed until the sun rose, and the rest of the world stirred to life.

—

Robbe didn’t have a lot of experience in the romantic arena. When he was a teenager, closeted even to himself, he’d had a different girlfriend every month. He’d always find some stupid reason to break it off. Sometimes even he didn’t understand why. His friends thought he was the stupidest motherfucker they’d ever met for always leaving these beautiful girls behind, and the truth was Robbe _was_ the stupidest motherfucker they’d ever met, just for an entirely different reason than they’d thought. He was sixteen the first time a boy kissed him, and once he got over the initial shock, he realized, _oh._ That’s the thing. That’s the thing I’ve been missing. 

The problem was that none of the boys Robbe met after he came out were anything like the fairytale he’d been hoping for. There was a string of closeted assholes who insisted Robbe be their dirty little secret, a few guys in serious relationships who kept Robbe as a side piece, and plenty of one-night hookups from guys he found on Grindr that left Robbe feeling dirty and used the next morning. 

The only person he’d ever dated who’d been an even remotely good partner to him was Noor. Though Robbe had tried to reciprocate, he eventually broke it off, though they remained on good enough terms that she was the first person he came out to once he realized he was gay. He was spiraling bad, then, still hung up on Jens and drinking too much and hooking up with people Robbe knew who were no good for him, people who treated him like shit, just to ease his loneliness. Robbe thought he’d never get over Jens: he thought even if he did find someone who was decently kind to him, someone who took care of Robbe the way he needed to be taken care of, he’d still pine for Jens, miserably, in secret.

Until Sander.

It wasn’t that Robbe had never been properly attracted to someone before. It’s just that now that he had Sander, it was hard to remember what being attracted to anyone else, even Jens, had felt like.

Robbe looked down at his phone as he left the lecture hall, shaking his head as he saw the most recent notification from Sander appear: a devil emoji. Before that was just a string of texts, all from Robbe, all of which just said “tell me.” Sander told Robbe that morning before sending him off to class that he had a surprise for him, and so far none of Robbe’s attempts to coax the surprise out of Sander had worked. 

“Hey, lover boy,” said Jens, tugging on Robbe’s hood. “You coming to lunch?”

Robbe rolled his eyes. Jens, Moyo, and Aaron had been making fun of him nonstop ever since he and Sander got together. 

They stepped onto the busy quad, dodging the stream of students heading towards the dining hall. Robbe followed the boys to the edge of campus, checking his phone again. Sander hadn’t given him any directions: all he’d said was that he’d pick Robbe up after class.

“Too busy texting the boyfriend?” said Aaron as they reached the street, picking up their skateboards.

“Fuck off,” said Robbe, though he couldn’t help but flush. “He’s not my boyfriend,” he mumbled. He didn’t know what he and Sander were yet. They were a _thing._ It had only been ten days after all since that kiss on the moonlit street: ten perfect days, but ten days nonetheless. 

“Oh yeah?” Jens jerked his head at the road. “You might wanna tell him that.”

Robbe heard the car before he saw it. Sander had made him listen to “Life on Mars” enough times that he could recognize the chorus anywhere. Not to mention the hoarse, gorgeous voice noisily singing along to the stereo blasting David Bowie loud enough for the entire campus to hear. Robbe spun around just as Sander revved the engine, honking obnoxiously as he pulled up the curb. 

Robbe’s mouth fell open. He couldn’t help it. This wasn’t Senne’s usual car Sander borrowed: this was the black Aston Martin, sleek and muscular and still only half as sexy as the bleach-haired boy at the wheel. 

Sander stepped out of the car to lean against the door, waggling his eyebrows with a cheeky grin. Robbe felt his heart beat once out of step. He wondered if he’d ever get used to the sight of Sander like this: leather jacket, that half-smug half-shy smile, eyes the color of an afternoon tropical storm and zeroed on Robbe like he was the only living thing in the world. The sunset was spraying orange behind his ice-blonde hair, and he looked hotter than sin. He had a face that belonged on billboards, a face that should’ve been wreathed in laurel in a classical painting, a face immortalized in an altar’s statue, for all the world to kneel before. He did not look like he belonged at an ordinary college campus, in front of ordinary Robbe and his beat-up skateboard and his hand-me-down backpack full of notes from Intro to Biology. 

Sander lifted his sunglasses onto his head. His eyes drifted lazily up and down Robbe’s body. 

Jens and Aaron, who looked terribly impressed, too impressed to make fun of how embarrassingly flustered Robbe was, left the scene with a quick “goodbye” muttered under their breath. Aaron kept glancing over his shoulder at Sander, his mouth hanging open like he was considering some grand love confession, until Jens yanked him by the hood of his jacket and hurried them away. 

Robbe’s stomach squirmed in an almost intolerably delicious way as Sander took a step forward, toying idly with the string of the hoodie Robbe was wearing: one of Sander’s, and just a little too big on him.

“Hey, cutie,” said Sander, tugging Robbe forward. He almost dropped his skateboard. His eyes fell to Sander’s mouth. Sander’s smirk was turning cockier by the second as the gap between them closed. 

Robbe swallowed, hard, lifting his face to be kissed. Sander brushed their lips together, agonizingly light, before stepping back, laughing at the expression on Robbe’s face.

If Robbe had learned anything about Sander in the past ten days, the most frustrating and thrilling was how much of a goddamn tease he was. He’d learned other things too: Sander was a very good cook, but he hated cleaning up afterwards. He had a surprisingly stripped-down, almost barren room for such a colorful boy: though it was formerly one of Senne’s guest rooms, it still looked clean and clinical as a hotel room, and Sander kept most of his things in suitcases and cardboard boxes. He knew every single David Bowie lyric and had already submitted Robbe to several “exams,” though bringing the teacher, he’d assured Robbe, was very much permitted. He was apparently a goddamn wunderkind maestro superstar at literally every kind of art, and spoke very respectfully of his professors, who all considered him to be some kind of prodigy. He liked sleeping with his head on Robbe’s chest, and having his hair played with, and forehead kisses. He was so much softer and kinder and lovelier than Robbe ever could have imagined. 

“Get in,” said Sander, jerking his chin at the passenger seat. “Plenty of time for that later. I want to start driving while we still have a bit of sunset.”

Robbe put his skateboard and his backpack in the trunk. He felt Sander’s eyes on his face as he slipped into the passenger seat. 

“What?” Robbe asked. Sander was staring, and Robbe felt jittery and strange. He could smell Sander’s aftershave and the leather of his jacket.

Sander just shook his head, still looking terribly fond. He shifted the car into drive and pulled into the street. Robbe pulled down the visor to block the sun from his eyes. The season was finally reaching an end. The trees were still winter-bare, but Robbe could sense the promising of flowering, a wet virile smell in the air like coming spring.

A wide tree-lined lane opened before them, suffused with dusky light. Wind rustled, a bird twittered. Otherwise it was perfectly silent, an empty road.

Without warning, Sander turned the wheel and pulled off to the side of the street. He shifted the car into park and turned to face Robbe, his face strange and intent. Before Robbe had time to close his eyes, Sander’s mouth was on him. He had one hand braced on the gear shift and the other at the hinge of Robbe’s jaw. Robbe arched into the kiss, taking Sander by the bicep. Sander’s lips brushed against his one last time before drifting down to his chin, his neck. He planted slow, open-mouthed kisses down the line of Robbe’s throat.

Robbe squeezed Sander’s bicep again, his blood already coursing painfully southward. All Sander had to do was kiss him and Robbe was already half-undone. Sander pulled back, running a hand through his hair.

“What was that for?” Robbe rasped.

Sander tilted his head back into his headrest. He looked at Robbe sidelong, then jerked Robbe closer by the string of his hoodie. He kissed Robbe again, cupping the back of his neck. Robbe made a low, unthinking sound that Sander very much liked, judging by the way his fingers curled into Robbe’s hair. 

“Well, the first one was for nothing,” said Sander. He leaned back in his own seat, arm perched casually on the window, his mouth more pink and insolent than ever. His gaze shifted back to Robbe. “The second one was for the way you look in my fucking hoodie.”

There was another sharp tug of arousal somewhere behind Robbe’s navel. Color flooded his cheeks.

“I thought you said you wanted to start driving while there was still some sunset left,” said Robbe, resting his cheek against the seat. 

“Yeah, I did,” said Sander. “Thanks for distracting me.”

“I didn’t do anything!” Robbe laughed weakly.

Sander’s eyes fell, half-hooded, to Robbe’s mouth again. He captured him in another slow, dizzying kiss. “You don’t have to do anything to be distracting,” Sander whispered.

Robbe’s hands crawled under Sander’s t-shirt, unable to resist touching him any longer. 

“Careful, Robin,” said Sander, squeezing Robbe’s wrist, “or I’m not gonna be able to drive.”

“You can if you let me take care of you first,” Robbe reasoned, his lips moving down Sander’s jaw to his neck. 

Sander eased Robbe off of him until they were both in their respective seats. Robbe couldn’t help but pout, punching Sander gently when he laughed at him.

“It’ll be better if we wait until we get there,” said Sander, patting Robbe’s cheek. “Trust me.”

“Get where?” said Robbe, shifting in his seat, still uncomfortably turned-on. “You still haven’t told me anything.”

“Aw, Robbe.” Sander pulled a face. “Has no one ever surprised you before? Do I need to explain the concept to you?”

Robbe rolled his eyes, gently punching Sander’s arm again. Sander caught Robbe’s fist in his hand and kissed his knuckles before shifting the car into drive. Robbe studied Sander quietly as they drove, David Bowie still blasting from the speakers, the wind playing with Sander’s hair and the sun rinsing him in gold. Even after two weeks with Sander, it was still hard to believe this wasn’t some cruel and elaborate dream. 

Sander looked at him, sideways, as though he could read Robbe’s mind, and threaded their fingers together near the gear shift, his other hand steady and confident on the wheel. Robbe had become accustomed to displays like this: Sander had what felt like an almost telepathic access to Robbe’s brain. Sander told him that he loved how open Robbe was, how legible, how his face and his moods were so easily read, an open book. Robbe didn’t know how else to be. He wasn’t like Sander: there was no mystery to him. Everything he felt was broadcast on his face, for all the world to see. And Sander, the telepath, always seemed to know exactly what Robbe needed to feel better. Though Sander wasn’t very good or comfortable with explaining himself, he reassured Robbe in other ways—grandiose romantic platitudes, kisses and touches that made Robbe forget what he was upset or insecure about it in the first place. Any attempts for Robbe to probe deeper into Sander’s past were usually brushed aside breezily with a self-deprecating joke or a distracting kiss. But though Sander was clearly at ease being physically demonstrative with him, Robbe still couldn’t help but feel the occasional prickle of uncertainty.

They still hadn’t slept together. Most nights they spent together sharing the same pillow, talking late into the early hours of the morning, kissing and cuddling and holding each other. But as soon as Robbe’s fingers began creeping lower, wanting to please him, wanting to show Sander how he made Robbe feel, Sander would pull his attention away with some silly distraction: a song Robbe had to listen to _right now,_ a painting he had to describe that very moment, some ridiculous story he had to tell Robbe immediately. So far Robbe had played along: their relationship was still new, after all, and maybe Sander just wanted to wait. It was romantic, in a way, Robbe supposed, that Sander seemed more interested in talking to him: certainly none of the others boys Robbe had been with had ever cared much about what Robbe had to say. But he couldn’t help but feel insecure nonetheless.

The highway opened to them, a dark ribbon against the last fading rays of sunset. Sander was skipping around the playlist, clearly delighted by the fact that Robbe now knew enough Bowie to sing along to a few of them. They were an hour into the drive when Robbe felt his stomach began to rumble.

“Hungry?” Sander asked, before Robbe even had the chance to say anything.

Robbe shrugged. He didn’t want Sander to stop for him just because he was a bit hungry, especially since it seemed like Sander was eager to get wherever he was taking them. 

“Robbe,” Sander warned, mostly teasing, but Robbe could detect a hint of seriousness too. “We talked about this.”

Robbe rolled his eyes. It was true. He knew he had a habit of pretending like he didn’t need something if he thought it would be a bother. 

“I guess I’m a little hungry. But we can just stop at a gas station or something—” Robbe mumbled.

“A gas station?” said Sander, faux-outraged. “You think I haven’t planned something better than a gas station? What do take me for, some kind of amateur?”

“Sorry, sorry,” Robbe laughed, raising his hands in surrender. 

“You should be,” said Sander. “I’m taking you to the best diner in the world.”

“In the world, huh?” said Robbe.

Sander brought Robbe’s hand to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. “In the whole world.”

A few exits later, Sander turned off the highway into a charming small-town, all storybook shopfronts and tiny restaurants with fairy-lit patios. At the end of the road was a retro-looking diner, Robin’s egg blue with tin-silver trimming and black-and-white tiled floors. Sander sat them at a bright red booth in the back and ordered them both burgers and fries and a chocolate milkshake to share.

“Is this the surprise, then?” said Robbe, accepting the mouthful of fries Sander offered him. 

“You think this is the surprise?” said Sander, throwing a ketchup packet at Robbe across the table, offended. “You’ve got to learn to dream bigger, Ijzermans.”

Robbe laughed around the straw of their milkshake. Sander left the booth to stick some coins into a jukebox. Robbe watched him, unable to suppress the stir of jealousy: everybody else in the diner was watching Sander too. He was probably the most beautiful and dangerous-looking thing that had ever stepped foot inside, with his paint-splattered combat boots and bleached hair and curling tendrils of his tattoos snaking up the collar of his leather jacket.

A _ping_ from his phone made him look away from Sander, whose hips were moving in a very distracting way as he chose his song on the jukebox. 

Dad: _you can’t ignore me forever, Robbe. We need to talk about what we’re going to do with your Mama. It’s getting worse. For once in your life I need you to grow up and start facing the reality of this situation. call me_

Sander slid back into the booth, this time on the same side as Robbe. Robbe quickly put his phone away. 

“What’s up?” said Sander. 

Robbe inhaled shakily. _What’s up is that my mama is slowly going crazy and my dad is an asshole and I wish I could just_ do _something I wish I could take her away from him I wish I could be fucking useful to someone for once—_

But he couldn’t get out the words. Sander squeezed Robbe’s leg, his thumb stroking back and forth. “Hey,” said Sander quietly. “It’s okay.”

“I’m fine,” Robbe said, with a sad, unconvincing smile, “I just want to enjoy the weekend with you. Okay?”

Sander kissed his cheek. “Okay. Will you dance with me?”

“Absolutely not.”

A song had started to play. One Robbe recognized from the first night he and Sander kissed. _Rebel Rebel._

“Okay. Can I at least serenade you?”

Robbe laughed, much more genuinely this time, shaking his head. Sander looked like a puppy. 

“But this is _our song—_ ”

Robbe bit his lip, overwhelmed by the idea that he and Sander might have a song. Sander started humming along anyways, unable to stop himself. Robbe knew Sander just wanted to cheer him up, and somehow, as if by magic, it was actually working. 

Sander paid and led Robbe back to the car, still humming under his breath. 

“Are you really not gonna tell me what this big surprise is, then?” Robbe asked, sliding back into the passenger seat. 

“You seriously underestimate my will-power, sweetheart.” 

Robbe felt a sharp throb of heat bloom in his stomach at the name _sweetheart._ Sander drove them back to the highway, rolling up the windows now that it was much colder outside.

“You want to pick the music now?” said Sander, handing Robbe’s his phone. 

“No, I like it,” said Robbe.

“You do?” said Sander, sounding a little surprised. 

“Yeah,” Robbe said sincerely, turning in seat so he was facing Sander instead of the road, resting his cheek against the headrest. 

Sander chewed on the corner of his lip, glancing at Robbe sidelong. “It’s okay if you don’t, honestly. I know I can be a bit—” he twirled his finger around his ear, “you know, when it comes to Bowie…”

“Yeah, and it’s fucking cute,” Robbe admitted

Sander laughed, teasing. “It’s cute, huh?”

Robbe played with Sander’s fingers, tracing the thick silver band he wore on his index finger. “I like how much you care about the stuff you’re into. Most people aren’t like that. Most people just act like they don’t like anything. Like they’re too cool to be genuinely into stuff. But you don’t give a fuck about any of that.”

A new song began playing, a deep cut, something a bit slower, one of the Bowie songs Sander had yet to show Robbe.

“When did you first start listening to him?” said Robbe.

“I was twelve,” said Sander, who looked a bit shy, as if he weren’t used to being asked about his interests like this. “A very cool twelve-year old, I’ll have you know.”

“Too cool for me,” Robbe joked.

“Yeah right. I bet you were so cool, skater-boy.”

Robbe chewed on his bottom lip. “I had to leave school, actually, when I was thirteen,” Robbe admitted, staring out the window. “And then again in high school, at sixteen. That’s why we’re the same age.”

“We’re the same age?” said Sander.

“Yeah. Aren’t you 21?”

“Nope. I’ll be 23 in a couple of months. I took a year off, too. I had to repeat a year, in high school. What’s your reason? Just too much of a troublemaker, Izjermans?”

Robbe tried and failed to smile. “No, um…” he swallowed, “My mom. She started getting really depressed. My dad—he just ignored it. He’d go to work like nothing was wrong, as if he didn’t notice Mama hadn’t eaten in like…four days. So I kept missing school, or showing up late, trying to look after her. Eventually I missed so much that they held me back a year. That was when I was thirteen.”

Sander stroked his thumb along the back of Robbe’s hand. 

“And when you were sixteen?” Sander asked softly.

“She…she had an incident,” Robbe said delicately. He and Sander had talked a bit about his Mama before, but never in this much detail. He wasn’t sure if Sander could handle the details of his Mama’s failed suicide attempt. “She spent a long time in the hospital. I just stopped going to school. It felt so pointless, learning about fucking…” Robbe took a deep breath, the old frustrations building up again, “…trigonometry, or whatever, when she was suffering so much, all by herself.”

“You must be really close with her,” said Sander, gently.

Robbe nodded. “She’s…she’s better now, mostly. She and dad are at home.” He turned to face the window again, unable to bear whatever expression Sander was wearing at the moment. “I love her so much. I just wish things weren’t so hard for her.”

“I know having you be there makes it easier for her,” said Sander. “Most people don’t have somebody like that.”

Robbe pressed his cheek against the window. A lump burned in his throat. “I feel like I’m always letting her down. I wish I could do more.”

“You’re doing more than most people would. She’s so lucky to have you, Robbe.”

“It’s not luck. She’s my mama. She doesn’t deserve any less just because she has a mental illness.”

Sander’s thumb stopped stroking the back of Robbe’s hand. “Not everyone thinks like that,” said Sander quietly.

Robbe removed his hand from beneath Sander’s, finally turning to look at him. “Do you?” he asked.

A muscle leaped in Sander’s jaw. Robbe couldn’t quite read his expression, but he thought Sander looked almost angry. 

They were quiet for a long time. The Bowie playlist Sander had chosen had ended halfway through their conversation, and Sander hadn’t bothered to choose another yet. Robbe watched the trees pass in the windows, the trailing red glare of headlights ahead of them. He glanced at Sander again. His hands were moving anxiously on the wheel.

“Sander,” said Robbe quietly. 

“Maybe we should go back,” Sander said abruptly.

“What—why?” said Robbe, sitting up. His heart raced. “What do you mean?”

Sander’s fingers drummed restlessly on the wheel. He craned his neck to see the exit ahead of them, and then, without any warning, Sander pulled off the highway. Robbe grabbed the side handle on the passenger door, holding on tightly as Sander turned quickly at the exit ramp. 

“Sander,” said Robbe, trying to hide the panic from his voice, “Sander, what are you—”

Sander took a sharp turn into a gas station. He cut the engine. But instead of getting out to get gas—the tank was still half-full, according to the dashboard—he just pressed his forehead against the wheel, his eyes closed.

Robbe’s pulse jackhammered. He didn’t know what to do. He’d never seen Sander like this before. He didn’t know what brought this on, or if it was his fault. Maybe the conversation about his Mama had been too much for Sander. Maybe he wasn’t ready for all of Robbe’s problems to be dumped on him. Here was Sander, trying to give Robbe some beautiful weekend surprise, and Robbe instead had ruined the entire mood he’d created, just like that.

“Sander,” Robbe whispered. “Sander, please talk to me.”

Robbe heard Sander inhale, sharply. He put his hand on Sander’s shoulder: he could feel his muscles, tense and almost trembling. 

“I need to tell you something,” said Sander, finally. He sounded surprisingly calm. Almost monotone. As if he had already had this conversation before and had already achieved the numbness which came afterwards.

Robbe ran his thumb along the back of Sander’s neck. Sander sat up and faced Robbe, his eyes intense, too intense, but it seemed important that Robbe hold his gaze, that he show Sander that he was ready for whatever turn this conversation took.

“I want to tell you now,” said Sander. “But Robbe, I want you to know: after I tell you, we can turn around and go back, okay? You might…you might need some time to think or maybe—I dunno, maybe you won’t want to see me any more. And that’s okay, too. _Fuck,_ I should’ve—” Sander’s voice raised abruptly, though his anger was directed at himself: he ran a furious hand through his hair then hit the wheel, his hands clenching and unclenching. “I shouldn't have waited so long to tell you,” he said, quieter, closing his eyes.

“Sander, it’s okay,” said Robbe gently, taking one of Sander’s hands in his. He ran his thumbs reassuringly along the back of Sander’s hand. “Just talk to me. It’s okay.”

Sander nodded, his throat working, as if he was convincing himself. “I have…” he took a deep breath. “I have—an illness. A mental illness.”

“Okay,” said Robbe.

“I’m bipolar,” said Sander. 

Sander was bipolar. Robbe’s pulse jumped. Sander was bipolar. All of Sander’s panic, all of his silences: _fuck._ Robbe closed his eyes, an ache opening in his chest for this boy, this beautiful brave boy. Sander must’ve been so terrified to tell him. But here he was, telling Robbe anyways.

“Okay,” said Robbe softly. 

“Robbe, I’m bipolar,” Sander repeated. He was looking at Robbe with a cagey, guarded look in his eye, half-challenging Robbe, as if braced for some kind of fight. 

“Okay,” said Robbe, even more gently. “I’m…” he shook his head, stumbling over the right words, wanting to get it right. “Thank you. I’m glad you told me.”

Sander was still searching Robbe’s face, almost fiercely, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to hear what Robbe had said. 

Robbe kissed Sander’s knuckles. Only then did Sander’s face soften. Robbe did it again. Sander stared into his eyes, resting his cheek against his head rest. Robbe mirrored him, still holding Sander’s hand in his. 

“What’re you thinking about?” Sander whispered finally, after a long silence.

“I’m thinking that you look beautiful,” Robbe confessed.

Sander swallowed hard and looked away. His face sort of twisted for a second, almost painfully, before settling again. A muscle ticked in his jaw.

“I’m thinking that you were way too freaked out to tell me that,” said Robbe, smiling sadly. 

The corner of Sander’s mouth lifted. “You’re an angel,” he whispered.

“No, I’m not,” said Robbe steadily. “Being cool with your bipolar disorder doesn’t make me an angel. That’s basic human decency.”

Sander’s eyebrow flicked wryly, something bitter moving across his face. “It’s not as basic as you’d think.”

Robbe kissed Sander’s hand again, with a tone of finality. “Come on,” said Robbe. “Didn’t you have a surprise to show me?”

Sander gave a quick, shy grin, then pulled Robbe into a fierce sort of kiss. A wild, messy sort of feeling was blooming in Robbe’s stomach. He put his hand on Sander’s chest, and he could feel how savagely Sander’s heart was racing.

Sander turned the key in the ignition and sped away from the gas station, wheels squealing, something loose and wild unleashed from him. He looked at Robbe sidelong, as if some silent decision had been made for him, and threaded their fingers together in the center console. 

Robbe chose a new playlist for them, staring at the slow smile that spread across Sander’s face as the opening notes of “Modern Love” began to play. Sander rolled the windows down and turned the volume all the way up, and they drove the rest of the way like that, singing at the top of their lungs, the wind making a riot of their hair, their cheeks aching from grinning at each other. 

Sander reached another bend in the highway and pointed in the distance. Robbe could make out moonlight glittering on water. 

“Is that the ocean?” Robbe breathed incredulously.

Sander squeezed his hand. He took the next exit and led them down a winding path, dark trees and single-lane roads, giant houses in the hills. Around every other bend was a distant view of the ocean. Finally, Sander had reached the top of the canyon and pulled into the driveway of an ultra-modern beach house.

Robbe shook his head in disbelief. “How…”

“It really does pay to have rich friends, huh?” said Sander, hopping out of the driver’s seat. He opened Robbe’s door with a theatrical flourish and scooped him into his arms for a kiss.

Robbe was too stunned to kiss back. Sander set him back on the ground and looped an arm around Robbe’s waist, leading him up to the front door. It was the most beautiful house Robbe had ever seen. It was far back enough into the canyon that they had total privacy. Towering around them were trees as tall as mountains, jungle-thick and enmeshing them in their own private planet, so it didn’t matter that the walls were mostly glass. Sander unlocked the door. Inside it was even more beautiful: marble floors, a sleek looking fireplace, a waterfall in the front entryway, a sprawling kitchen. Sander retrieved their bags from the trunk as Robbe wandered around the house. 

He went to the window. There was an infinity pool outside and what looked like a hot tub, and an outdoor fireplace. A barbecue, patio chairs, and beyond that, the ocean, midnight-dark and infinite.

Robbe heard the door shut and suitcase wheels. Then, Sander’s arms were curling around his waist. His chin hooked on his shoulder, his lips brushing Robbe’s cheek. 

“Do you like it?” Sander whispered. 

Robbe turned in his arms and captured Sander in a long kiss. He didn’t trust himself to speak. Sander grinned into the kiss and picked Robbe again, laughing as he swung him around in circles. 

“Sander—” Robbe protested half-heartedly as Sander swung him over his shoulder and carried him out onto the patio. 

Within seconds of putting Robbe down, Sander was already stripping off his leather jacket and his shoes. He tossed his t-shirt over his shoulder with a careless gesture.

“Well, come on,” said Sander, gesturing impatiently at Robbe’s clothes, “you can’t get in the pool with your clothes on.”

“I’m not getting in there!”

“It’s heated,” said Sander, leaning down to scoop some water into his hands and flicking it at Robbe, who jumped back, expecting that Sander was fucking with him, but it actually was warm. 

Robbe raised his eyebrows as Sander shimmied out of his pants, and then his boxers. He flashed Robbe that cocky grin, the one that never failed to drive Robbe wild. And then Sander jumped into the pool, cannonballing like a little boy, sending a wave of water over the edge, splashing Robbe.

“Sander!” Robbe whined, but it was too late. He was already half-soaked. 

“Come on, fire-breather,” said Sander. Robbe knew without saying anything that they were both thinking of the same night: their first kiss, in the hot tub in Senne’s penthouse, under the stars. 

So Robbe stripped, unable to deny Sander anything. He jumped. 

Water folded him around him, bath-water warm. Robbe had barely been in the pool a second before Sander’s arms were sliding around his waist, tugging him to the surface to be kissed. They swam to the edge of the infinity pool, the ocean waves crashing faraway in the distance, wind in the trees. They kissed lazily, hands exploring each other with unhurried leisure. Robbe curled his arms around Sander’s neck, so every inch of them was pressed together, gasping a little into Sander’s mouth as he felt his hands slide down Robbe’s back, further and further, holding him close. 

Robbe broke the kiss and tucked his face into Sander’s neck. Sander held him even tighter. 

“Thank you,” Robbe whispered. 

“For what?” Sander laughed softly, confused.

Robbe shook his head, kissing Sander’s neck. He rested his cheek on Sander’s shoulder, and together they gazed across the ocean. “Just…thank you.”

When their skin began to wrinkle, Sander wrapped them both in towels and they went inside, leaving damp footprints on the marble floors. Sander lit a fire and put on a kettle for hot chocolate, and once they changed into sweats they curled into the same arm chair and passed a mug back and forth, Robbe sprawled on Sander’s lap.

“I can teach you to surf,” Robbe offered. 

Sander shook his head fondly. “Of course you know how to surf.”

Robbe winked at him. 

“I don’t care how you good you look in a wetsuit, surfer boy. There’s no way I’m getting in that ocean,” said Sander. “It’s freezing this time of year.”

“The wetsuit keeps you warm!”

“Please,” said Sander. “As if Senne actually has any wetsuits. He doesn’t get in water, period. It would mess up his hair.”

“Fine,” said Robbe, putting down the empty mug and turning to straddle Sander’s lap. They kissed slowly this time, taking their time with it, Sander’s hands huge and warm under Robbe’s t-shirt. 

“We’ll come back in summer,” said Sander, tipping his head back against the arm chair. Robbe’s hands stroked down his chest. “And you can teach me to surf then.”

“We’ll be back in summer?” said Robbe.

“Yeah,” said Sander, his eyes softening. Firelight swam through his green irises. 

“How do you know?” Robbe whispered. 

“Because there’s no way I’m letting you go, Robbe Ijzermans,” said Sander, his mouth a breath away from Robbe’s.

Robbe swallowed. “How can you be so sure? I could be a terrible boyfriend, you know.”

Sander laughed softly. “Impossible.”

Robbe sucked in the corner of his bottom lip, studying the lush fringe of Sander’s eyelashes, dragging a finger along the curve of his cheekbone. He could never get over how confident Sander was about him, how certain.

“I’ve never had a real boyfriend before, you know?” Robbe admitted. 

Sander kissed him. “Neither have I.”

—

In the morning Sander made them breakfast—eggs and bacon and pancakes, the works. He’d already learned that Robbe really couldn’t cook for shit. They poured their coffee into thermoses and took a long walk on the beach, enjoying how empty it was. There were a few families and couples scattered here and there, most of them gathered around a faraway pier, but since it was still technically the winter season, they had the beach almost entirely to themselves.

For lunch Sander brought Robbe to the pier. They found a spot near the end and rented fishing equipment. Sander taught Robbe how to hook the bait and cast a line, though neither of them caught anything that impressive. 

“How do you know how to do this?” asked Robbe, watching as Sander expertly cast in his line out again. 

“My dad,” Sander shrugged, in a way that didn’t invite further discussion. Robbe folded his arms on the railing and rested his cheek, watching as Sander began to reel. He wanted to ask Sander more: so far, he’d never heard him speak much about his family, other than that he wasn’t on great terms with them. He’d hoped that now that Sander had confided in him about his bipolar disorder that they might be able to share everything with each other. It hurt, a little, that Sander still felt the need to keep some things to himself, though Robbe knew he was perfectly in his rights to do so, and he didn’t want to come across as pushy, or needy, especially while their relationship was still so new. 

Once they decided they’d fished long enough, Sander brought Robbe to an arcade on the boardwalk. Robbe beat Sander at literally everything—he couldn’t tell if Sander was letting him win or not—except for air hockey, which Sander was frustratingly excellent at. They watched the beginning of the sunset on the pier and finished at an expensive-looking restaurant overlooking the sea. Sander booked them a table that gave them a perfect view of the sunset. 

Robbe looked up from the menu and discovered that Sander was pointing a camera at him.

He blinked at the flash. A few of the other tables looked over at the sudden bright light. Sander—clearly not giving a fuck about the attention they were drawing—grinned widely and took another

“Sander!” Robbe whined, but he couldn’t help but smile. 

“What?” Sander snapped one more, and then, pulling a face at Robbe’s indignant expression, finally put it away. “I couldn’t resist. You, the sunset, together…” He made a chef’s kiss gesture. 

Robbe rolled his eyes, shaking his head. When the waiter arrived, Sander ordered them a very expensive bottle of wine, and oysters and calamari and other appetizers Robbe had never heard of before, let alone tried. He indulged Sander’s insistence that Robbe be hand-fed as he tried each new thing. All of it, of course, was delicious. But nothing was as divine as the way Sander looked in candlelight across from him, the ocean pink and gold from the last fading rays of sunset, a mirror image of the sky above. Sander’s cheeks were beginning to flush from the wine, and never before had he looked more like a prince from a Renaissance painting. 

“How can you afford all this?” said Robbe incredulously, as the waiter brought over yet another plate of some exotic-looking fish. 

“I’ve been coming here for years with Senne,” said Sander, shrugging. “They won’t charge us. Pretty sure Senne helped out the owner with some nasty business he was involved in a few years ago.”

“Seriously?”

Sander nodded. 

Robbe took another long sip of his wine—he usually didn’t drink wine, he rarely ventured outside of cheap beer and hard liquor, but this wine was at least five times the price of any bottle he’d ever had, and it was delicious. 

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Robbe took it out, intending just to put it on silent and ignore the message, but he’d already accidentally read the notification. 

Dad: _Call me, Robbe. Please._

Robbe shook his head, clearing the notification. His dad had ruined enough. Robbe wasn’t going to let him ruin this night, too. 

He looked across the table. Sander had his chin cupped in his hand, and was gazing dreamily out the window. 

Robbe opened his mouth, his curiosity getting the better of him. “Can I ask you something?”

Something moved across Sander’s eyes, something that looked to Robbe almost like fear, but Sander’s expression quickly settled into his usual easy nonchalance. “Of course.”

“Why do you live with Senne?” 

Sander squeezed a bit of lemon onto his lobster thoughtfully, avoiding Robbe’s eyes. “I moved out of my father’s house when I was fifteen. I didn’t always live with Senne, but…” Sander studied his plate, still not looking at Robbe. “He came through for me. When I needed him.”

“Do you talk to your family at all?” Robbe asked gently.

“My mom and I are alright,” Sander shrugged. That cagey look was beginning to take over his face again, and so Robbe reached across the table and closed Sander’s hand in his.

“You don’t have to tell me any more,” said Robbe. “I’m sorry for asking. I shouldn’t have—”

At that moment their waiter arrived, and Sander quickly arranged his face into his most charming smile, firing a million questions about their dessert menu. Robbe leaned back in his seat, playing restlessly with the napkin in his lap. By the time the waiter left, Sander had already quickly changed the subject, launching into a story about the last time he’d been here with Senne, and they’d nearly got kicked out for getting too drunk, until Senne called the owner who convinced the bartender to let them stay. By the time their dessert arrived, Robbe completely forgot about Sander’s mysterious parents, and it wasn’t until they were back at the beach house, Sander’s head cradled in the crook of Robbe’s neck, that Robbe lay awake, playing with Sander’s hair, wondering how much he really knew about the boy in his arms.

—

Robbe awoke to the sound of a guitar. He threw a hand over his eyes, shielding himself against the ocean of sunlight spilling into the glass-walled house. He found Sander on the patio, a cup of coffee half-finished and a mostly uneaten pile of toast on the table beside him, with a guitar in his lap.

He looked up with a dazzling smile when Robbe stumbled sleepily onto the patio. Robbe stole the sunglasses off Sander’s hand and emptied the rest of his coffee into his throat like a shot. 

“Hi beautiful,” Sander laughed. 

“Why are you always up so _early?_ ” Robbe demanded, his mouth full of toast. 

“Come here,” said Sander. “Sit next to me.”

Robbe obliged, his curiosity overcoming his tiredness. “Sander…” Robbe whined, but it was too late to stop him. Sander was already slinging the guitar around Robbe’s neck.

“Don’t you want to learn?”

“At seven in the morning?”

“It’s practically afternoon!” Sander teased him.

“You’re an absolute maniac…” Robbe grumbled, but he stopped as soon as Sander settled in behind him, his chin on Robbe’s shoulder, his hands guiding Robbe’s through each chord until he could kind of play the opening notes of “Rebel Rebel.” As the sun continued to climb higher and higher, they curled together in the patio chair, the guitar long abandoned beside them, enjoying the sun’s heat and their shared body warmth. Robbe was sitting between Sander’s legs, his head resting on Sander’s chest, and they talked quietly about nothing important, drifting in and out of sleep. 

“Have you ever written any original songs?” Robbe asked, turning enough that he could see Sander’s face. 

“No…” said Sander.

Robbe laughed, poking Sander’s cheek. “I know you have. Look at you—you’re a terrible liar. Like that day you told me you hadn’t taken any pictures of me at the skate park.”

Sander’s mouth twisted. He looked into Robbe’s eyes, his expression rueful, almost penitent. If there was anything Robbe knew for certain about Sander, it’s that he wasn’t very good at explaining himself, or saying sorry. “You knew I was lying?” he said eventually.

“Of course I did,” said Robbe. Sander’s arms were draped around Robbe’s shoulders. He played with Sander’s fingers. 

“I was awful to you,” said Sander. 

Robbe looked up at him. 

“I _was_ ,” said Sander. “I was an asshole. You didn’t deserve it.”

“No,” said Robbe. “I didn’t. But…”

“There’s no buts—”

“ _But,_ ” Robbe insisted, taking Sander by the chin, “you’re past all your self-defeating nonsense now, right?”

Sander kissed Robbe’s forehead and nodded, hugging him tight. 

Robbe threaded their fingers together and kissed Sander’s knuckles. “You can always talk to me, you know?”

“You’re an angel,” Sander whispered.

“And you’re not as scary as you think you are, Sander Driesen.”

He felt Sander laugh into his hair. “No?” 

Robbe shook his head. 

“Well you terrify me,” Sander whispered. 

Robbe turned so he could kiss Sander full-on. He loved Sander like this. Hungry, insatiable, unguarded and immodest and vulnerable: everything he shielded from the world, everything he was beginning to show Robbe, piece by careful piece, as though trusting that Robbe would treat it gently. 

And Robbe would. He felt like every new inch that Sander ceded to him was hard-fought, and Robbe didn’t want Sander to feel like his trust in Robbe was being taken lightly. In minutes they were stumbling through the house, kissing each other greedily, unable to stop. Somehow they made it into the bedroom without knocking over any piece of furniture—though a vase looked like it was dangerously close to upending—and Sander kissed Robbe again, roughly, urgently. He pushed Robbe into the wall, his hands moving restlessly from Robbe’s spine to his hipbones to his hair, as if he wanted everything, all of it, all of it at once and he was angry he could only touch Robbe one piece at a time. 

Sander was holding Robbe so tightly he nearly him lifted off the ground. Robbe curled his arms around Sander’s neck, needing an anchor. Sander’s lips ghosted along Robbe’s cheek, to his temple, the hollow beneath his ear, murmuring _beautiful, beautiful, beautiful_ and _mine_. 

_Yours_ , Robbe thought, his fingers twisting in the soft hair at the nape of Sander’s neck. 

Suddenly Sander was pinning Robbe’s wrists against the wall. His stare was molten: Robbe was certain if Sander wasn’t holding him, he would’ve puddled to the floor. Sander drank him in, as if committing the way Robbe looked to memory. Robbe was sure he looked completely ruined, shameless in his need for Sander, but he didn’t care. 

He felt Sander’s fingers on the hem of his shirt, and Robbe lifted his arms obediently. Sander tossed it carelessly behind him. He stripped Robbe of his boxers next. 

And then Robbe was completely bare. He was still pressed against the wall, entirely at Sander’s mercy. Only Sander wasn’t touching him. He was just looking at him, a princely sort of smugness in his expression that made Robbe’s entire body go taut. He was so turned-on he could hardly breathe, and Sander knew it, of course he did. Sander, meanwhile, was still dressed: his tattoos half-visible under a white t-shirt, nearly the same shade as his hair. Black jeans and combat boots. He looked like a punk. He looked like every boy your mom warned you to stay away from. There were dozens of pop songs and 80s movies dedicated solely to warning Robbe against the very _idea_ of Sander Driesen, but right now Robbe couldn’t think of a single one. Because Sander was the most magnificent thing he’d ever seen, and really, he wasn’t much of a punk at all. If anyone saw the soft way Sander looked at Robbe in the morning, he’d have his punk credentials revoked immediately. 

All Robbe could think of was putting his mouth on him. 

He started to sink to the floor, reaching for the zipper of Sander’s jeans, but Sander hauled Robbe to his feet before he could. 

“Please,” Robbe whispered. He’d never been this keyed-up in his entire life. Sander pinned Robbe against the wall again, his mouth pressing agonizingly slow, open-mouthed kisses down the line of Robbe’s throat. Robbe’s eyes screwed shut, his fingers in Sander’s hair. He felt almost sick. It scared him, how much he wanted it, how helpless he felt. Sander had too much power over him. It felt like Sander could ask anything of him in that moment, anything at all, and Robbe would’ve done it without a moment’s hesitation. 

He begged again, hardly aware that he was making sounds, unsure even of what he was begging for other than _more_ and _everything_ and _now._ “Please, Sander _please_ —” Robbe panted.

Sander’s hands were tight around his wrists, immobilizing him, leaving Robbe completely vulnerable to Sander’s ministrations. Sander was merciless with him. Robbe felt the scrape of Sander’s teeth in the crook of his neck, just the right side of painful, and then, without warning—

Sander released him. He staggered back, his eyes wild looking, almost lost, like he’d just woken up from some mad dream. Sander ran a hand through his hair, breathing hard. He looked almost _scared._

“Sander…” Robbe started, peeling himself off the wall, but Sander was backing away, still running his hands furiously through his hair. 

“I, uh—” Sander started, “I just realized we’ve barely eaten anything today and it’s already almost dinner. You’re probably really hungry. I’m…I’m gonna get started on dinner.”

Before Robbe could say anything, Sander left the room. Robbe stood in the silence he left behind, barely able to comprehend what had just happened. He felt like he had whiplash. Though Sander was often finding excuses not to have sex—he was tired or not in the mood, or, more frequently, he claimed he wanted to wait for some elaborate mysterious date he had planned, which never seemed to actually materialize. Robbe had thought for sure by now they would have slept together: they had an entire beach house to themselves for fuck’s sake, and it wasn’t like Robbe was some shy withholding virgin. If anything he was started to become insecure about how _needy_ and clingy he was. He’d been quite literally begging for it, and not for the first time. 

And yet Sander had just left in the middle of what felt like the beginning of their first-time, with his most bullshit excuse yet. 

Robbe couldn’t help but fear it was just him. Maybe Sander liked kissing him well enough, but wasn’t attracted to him enough to want to actually sleep with him. Sander had slept with practically everybody, after all: Instagram models and soon-to-be famous actors and girls who looked like Victoria Secret models and art-school boys who were cooler than Robbe would ever be.

Slowly, Robbe dragged himself to the bathroom. After a long shower, he changed into a t-shirt and a pair of Sander’s sweatpants, which were a little too big for him.

His stomach writhing with nerves, Robbe made his way to the kitchen. He heard music playing: the Rolling Stones, this time. Sander was singing along as he chopped up an onion on a cutting board before edging them into the pot of whatever he was cooking. 

Robbe watched him for a while, resting his cheek against the wall. Sander was stirring the pot with a long wooden spoon. He lifted it to his mouth to taste, then pulled a bunch of spices from the cabinet and began sprinkling them in.

He turned to get something from another counter-top, and his eyes landed on Robbe. His face brightened immediately. 

“Here,” he said, waving his spoon in the air, as if nothing at all had happened, as if everything was fine, “Come here, taste this.”

Robbe joined him in the kitchen, accepting the spoonful of sauce. It was spaghetti sauce, evidently, and it tasted divine. 

“It was my grandma’s recipe,” said Sander. “And we’re having garlic bread, too. You can help with that.”

“I thought you didn’t trust me in the kitchen,” said Robbe, uncertainty still knotting his stomach. 

Sander laughed, then took Robbe’s face in his hands and kissed him. Robbe’s lips were slack under his. Eventually, he kissed back. This, Robbe knew, was Sander asking him to forget the moment before. He’d experienced enough of Sander’s nonverbal cues to understand that.

So Robbe chose to forget.

He didn’t want to spoil Sander’s apparently good mood, so he let Sander boss him around the kitchen for a while, instructing Robbe in the art of making perfect garlic bread. Sander even announced that he trusted Robbe enough to boil water. He spoon-fed Robbe more of the sauce: Robbe rolled his eyes at how long Sander insisted on blowing on it to cool it, and Sander, meanwhile was equally insistent that he could never forgive himself if he burned Robbe’s “perfect tongue.” Sander was clearly in his element, and it felt too good seeing him like this to ruin the moment. 

They ate dinner outside on the patio, watching the sunset. They were curled together in front of the outdoor fireplace when Robbe’s phone began to vibrate for the seventh time that evening.

Robbe groaned into Sander’s shoulder. Sander laughed, twirling a lock of Robbe’s hair around his finger.

“Just answer it, babe,” said Sander. “Get it over with.”

Robbe sighed loudly, fishing his phone from his pocket. He looked at the screen, expecting that it was his dad calling, but it was a number he didn’t recognize. 

He answered the call with a tentative “hello?”

“Robbe?” said a woman’s voice. She sounded frantic. “This is Robbe Ijzermans?”

“Yes?” said Robbe. He sat up. He didn’t recognize her voice. “Who is this?”

“I’m Elise—I’m one of your Mama’s friends. We’ve met before, a long time ago—”

“Did something happen to her? Is she okay?” Robbe got to his feet, his heart racing. Sander stood up, too, concerned.

“Robbe…” Elise took a shaky breath. Robbe’s stomach plummeted. “She’s…she’s okay. Don’t worry, she’s completely stable now, the doctors are taking great care of her…”

“Doctors?” Robbe demanded. 

“Robbe, there’s been an incident—”

He felt a fuse short-circuit in his brain. He swayed a little on his feet, stabilizing only by Sander’s tight grip on his shoulders. 

_An incident._ Elise was still explaining what was happening, but he couldn’t hear anything she was saying. The tinny sound of her voice couldn’t take shape. All he saw was his Mama on a hospital bed. His Mama, on the kitchen floor, not moving, an empty bottle of pills—

His phone pinged. It pinged again. Someone was trying to text him. 

“Where’s my dad?” Robbe whispered. 

“He…he left. That’s why she—”

Robbe’s hand curled into a fist. That fucking coward. That useless piece of shit _coward_ —

He didn’t even realize he was saying any of this out loud until he felt Sander’s hand soothe down the back of his head, drawing Robbe into the crook of his neck. 

He pushed Sander away and wiped his face. “I’m coming,” he told Elise.

“How soon can you get there?”

Robbe looked at Sander. He was able to pick up enough of the conversation. 

“Two hours,” said Sander.

“Two hours,” Robbe repeated. “What’s the name of the hospital she’s at?”

Robbe repeated everything she said to Sander, who was already searching the best and quickest route to get there. Sander mouthed that he was going to collect their bags, and left Robbe on the patio with a kiss to his forehead. 

He sat heavily on the nearest chair, not trusting his legs to hold him up much longer.

“You really think she’ll be okay?” Robbe whispered.

“Your Mama is the strongest person I know,” said Elise. “And as soon as she sees you…”

“I can’t believe him,” said Robbe fiercely. “I can’t believe he’d just—”

“I know, Robbe. I know.”

Elise said she was needed in his mother’s room, but to call her with updates. Robbe agreed and hung up. He had fifteen unread texts from his father. Robbe skimmed through them, his fury so thick in his throat it could choke him. Each one was the same pathetic variation on the theme: _call me, Robbe we need to talk Robbe please let me explain Robbe…_

Robbe threw his phone to the ground and buried his face in his hands. 

“Baby?” Sander called from the house. 

Robbe turned. Sander had their bags on his shoulder. He dumped them at the door and came to Robbe, helping him to his feet. He picked up Robbe’s phone—it was fine, thanks to his phone case—and led him to the door.

The drive only took an hour and forty-five minutes, but it felt infinite to Robbe. Sander talked to him the whole time, distracting him and holding Robbe’s hand, and Robbe was eternally grateful for it: silence, he was sure, would’ve broken him. The idea of being left alone with his thoughts was tortuous. 

But Sander was there beside him, every step of the way. Sander was there when Robbe had to find the front desk and ask which room his Mama was in. Sander was there when Robbe met the nurse, who gave Robbe a report of his Mama’s current condition. Sander was there when Robbe’s father called him for the twelfth time and couldn’t bring himself to answer the phone: Sander took it from him without a moment’s hesitation and calmly reported to his dad that Robbe was there with his Mama and he would appreciate if he stopped calling him, thanks. 

They stood in front of the room where Robbe’s Mama was. Robbe took another shaky breath. Sander curled an arm around his shoulders and pressed a kiss to Robbe’s temple

“Do you want me to come in with you? Or stay outside?” Sander whispered.

Robbe chewed on his bottom lip. “I…maybe just me, for now. I don’t know how she’s gonna be. She might not be comfortable around someone she doesn’t know.”

Sander nodded. “Of course. Come find me in the waiting room, after?”

Robbe nodded, numbly. Sander gave Robbe one last kiss to his forehead and left. 

Shakily, Robbe opened the door. There was a tray of food, abandoned, on the bedside table. A bouquet of flowers: Elise’s, most likely. There was a television in the corner of the room, near the ceiling. It was playing some inane reality show, something cheerful and silly, the kind of thing his Mama always liked having on in the background of a room, even though she almost never actually watched it. The lights were all off, and the television cast a blue glow across the room. Moonlight slanted through the closed blinds in thin slivers on the white blue sheets. 

Finally, with excruciating effort, Robbe forced himself to actually look at his Mama.

She was asleep and hooked up to IVs. Robbe sat carefully on the side of her bed. She looked so small under the covers, gaunt and sunken-cheeked. There were lavender-blue bruises under her eyes, and her skin was waxen-pale. He drew a finger along her cheek. He buried his lips in her hair. He could feel the slow, gentle drag of her breathing beneath him. 

A nurse knocked on the door frame, gently. With much effort, Robbe removed himself from the bed to hear the nurse’s report. His Mama would be stable in a day or two, but she would most likely be moved to an institution. It was unclear how long she would have to stay. Robbe nodded at all the right times, though he could feel his limbs knitting together, protectively, as if the moment he loosened his entire body would give out. He went back into his Mama’s room and gave her another kiss on the cheek before re-entering the hospital’s florescent hallway. 

He found the waiting room. Sander was on his feet the moment Robbe appeared. 

“The cafeteria was closed since it’s late now,” Sander was rambling, “but I persuaded a nurse to let me into their break room, she said the coffee’s much better in there than in the vending machines, plus, look at all this candy I got—”

Robbe felt a fissure opening inside him. Sander was still going on, ushering Robbe gently into the corner of the waiting room he’d staked out for them, but Robbe felt like every string that held him upright was cut, brutally, all at once. 

Robbe felt the sob released from his throat more than he heard it: it felt like something ripped from him, like a bullet withdrawn from a wound. 

“Oh, Robbe…” he heard Sander murmur, but Robbe couldn’t hear much more after that. He was crying so hard he wasn’t sure if he was even making sound. Every muscle in his body seized tight, then released, his knees trembling. He felt like something dissolving. 

But Sander was there to catch him as he broke. He felt Sander’s hands stroking the back of his hair and kissing his forehead and holding Robbe upright as he crumbled. He couldn’t stop shaking. He could shake the image of his Mama in that bed, so small, all by herself. He couldn’t stop imagining what she felt like when his Papa left, and _how could he—_

“I hate him,” Robbe choked out. He couldn’t stop crying. Sander hugged him impossibly tighter, his lips at Robbe’s temple. “I hate him so much how could he do this to her how could he how do you just _leave_ somebody like that—”

Robbe was barely aware of anything he was sobbing, barely aware even as Sander led him gently into a chair in the waiting room and into his lap, rubbing his back and whispering that he was there, that everything was going to be alright, that the most important thing was she was okay—

After what felt like hours, the body-wracking sobs finally began to subside. Robbe couldn’t quite breathe, and he was hiccuping—Sander gave him water, still rubbing his back—and eventually Robbe was able to take a full breath. There weren’t many people in the waiting room, thankfully, and most of them were too absorbed in their own business to pay much attention to the two boys curled together in the corner. Now that Robbe was beginning to return to his body, he noticed a television in the corner, playing some house-flipping show. Sander said a nurse had brought them juice, and he made Robbe drink all of it. 

“What do you wanna do?” Sander asked gently, squeezing Robbe tight. “We could stay here all night if you want and wait for her to wake up? Or we could go back to mine so you can sleep in a real bed, and we’ll come back in the morning?”

“Don’t you have class tomorrow?” Robbe whispered. 

“It doesn’t matter,” said Sander simply, without blinking an eye. “You’re more important.” 

Robbe’s throat knotted again. There was so much he wanted to say to Sander. Nobody had ever taken care of him like this before. No one. It had always been Robbe and Robbe alone. Sometimes Jens was there, but at the end of the day Jens was just another teenager, doing his best and trying to get by and mostly missing the mark, and so it had been up to Robbe, and Robbe alone, to look after himself. The problem was that after looking after his Mama, Robbe didn’t have the bandwidth to take care of himself too. He gave his Mama everything and was left to subsist on the dregs. And that was enough.

Until it wasn’t. Not even close. It caught up to him, eventually, it was bound to, of course it was. His Papa had always been too selfish, too absorbed in himself, to notice that his son was drowning. Robbe hadn’t even asked for much. He didn’t even ask to be helped. He just wanted someone to _notice._

And then there was Sander. Sander was more than just a safety net: he was an entire army. Robbe couldn’t even begin to tell Sander just how much this meant to him.

“You don’t have to…” Robbe started, but Sander put a finger to his lips. Sander was shaking his head, looking fond and amused and sad, all at once. 

“I’m going to take care of you, Robbe Ijzermans,” said Sander. He kissed Robbe’s forehead. Robbe pressed his face into Sander’s neck, looping his arms around his shoulders. “It’s not up for discussion.”

One last tear snaked down Robbe’s cheek, disappearing into the collar of Sander’s shirt.

“And besides…” Sander started, and Robbe could tell by the tone of his voice that he was about to break the tension, “I could probably slap my painting professor and he’d thank me afterwards.” 

Robbe laughed. “Asshole…”

“I’m just kidding,” said Sander. “He’s a very nice man.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Robbe whispered.

“And you’re perfect,” Sander whispered back, easing Robbe to his feet. “Let’s go home?”

_Home._ Home was never that small dark house with the blinds drawn, the three of them drifting through its strange rooms like ghosts. Home wasn’t a penthouse or a seaside getaway or a hospital room. Home was a boy. A boy with hair the color of sunlight dazzling on the surface of the ocean, blinding-white. A boy built like a fortress, and a single drawbridge lowered just for Robbe.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first i just want to say from the bottom of my heart, and i cannot stress this enough: yall are fucking ANGELS. to each of you who has sent me a comment or a kind message on tumblr or even just reblogged the fic (and i read tags i do i do)...that shit makes my whole LIFE you don't even know. it takes time to write these chapters of course it does but it also takes time to give feedback and i just wanna say how much i appreciate each and everyone of you. a lot of times if i'm having a stressful or bad day seeing that instantly puts the biggest dumbest smile on my face. 
> 
> second, since this has become more pronounced in this chapter and might be worth mentioning, if interested: i live in southern california, and i envision this fic taking place in southern california since those are the images most familiar to me (also honestly aesthetically these two would fit right in)
> 
> thirdly, next chapter will be sander's POV and i'll try my hardest to keep the same schedule i've been updating with :)  
> can't wait to hear what you all think of this chapter!!! and as always feel free to say hi [on tumblr @aholynight](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter Four

Robbe’s eyelashes dragged along Sander’s collarbone, his breath gentle and warm against Sander’s neck as they drifted closer to sleep. Robbe was curled against him, his head nestled on Sander’s shoulder, his finger drawing lazy shapes along Sander’s bare torso. 

They were in Sander’s room. It was a little after midnight. That night, Sander and Robbe had gone on a date: Robbe had spent most of the week in the hospital, looking after his Mama, and Sander insisted that Robbe needed one night out. Sander took him to a bar: a slightly upscale cocktail bar, where Robbe was unlikely to run into his friends, certain that they would be able do spend the night alone. They fed each other appetizers and made fun of people performing karaoke and played retro arcade games between drinks. 

Sander studied Robbe’s face, observing its slow transformation over the length of the evening: his boy had looked so exhausted before, purple shadows under his eyes and a faint tremble in his hands. Some nights he wanted Sander to stay with him at the hospital. Other nights he fell into Sander’s bed around two AM, crawling into his arms, silently asking to be held. Sander was still learning everything there was to know about Robbe, but one of the first things he uncovered was that when Robbe wanted to be held, he wanted it _tight._ Sometimes Sander was afraid he was squeezing Robbe so tightly he was hurting him, but then Robbe would burrow even deeper, almost mindlessly, and Sander would hold him even closer. He knew that Robbe wasn’t very good at asking for help, and that he had a bad habit of putting everyone else’s needs before his own. But Sander was a talented clairvoyant: he could read every one of Robbe’s placating, unconvincing smiles, the way he reached for Sander’s jacket or t-shirt almost unconsciously, the jittery way he’d glance at doorways when he was anxious to leave.

But Robbe was getting better at being honest with Sander when he wasn’t feeling good, when he needed help or felt worried or just needed to be held. Robbe, Sander had learned, was perhaps the strongest person he’d ever met: under all of Robbe’s delinquent tendencies to drink too much and live too recklessly and treat himself too carelessly, he was tough and dauntless and _good._ He was just _good._ The way he cared for his Mama was like nothing Sander had ever seen before. The way he disdained his father’s weakness and cowardice made Sander feel safe in a way he’d never experienced. Robbe had endured so much: he’d spent his entire life caring for everybody else. He’d done it for so long that it was second-nature to him, that he’d crushed the part of himself that needed looking after so deep underground that he no longer knew how to ask for help. 

Sander knew what that felt like. He’d spent enough years retreating inwards that he could recognize it in someone else, especially Robbe, whose face was so beautifully transparent to him, so yielding and open, forbidding Sander nothing. 

Robbe drew his finger gently along Sander’s bicep, tracing a tattoo. Sander waited for the inevitable question, his heartbeat quickening. _What does it mean? Tell me what it means._

But Robbe never asked. He just sighed, sweetly, patiently, tucking his head further into Sander’s chest, his hair spilling over Sander’s shoulder. His touch was impossibly tender as he continued to run his fingers along Sander’s bare torso, mapping each tattoo carefully. 

“Aren’t you going to ask me what they mean?” Sander murmured, his lips in Robbe’s hair.

Robbe’s face tilted up to look at Sander. “Hm?”

“My tattoos,” said Sander. “You’ve never asked about them. You’ve never even asked who did the art.”

Robbe’s brow knit. He looked like a confused puppy. “But I know who did the art.”

“Who?”

“You did. Didn’t you? Or at least, it looks like your art,” said Robbe. He drew his finger along the rim of the red planet emblazoned on Sander’s sternum. 

“I’ve only shown you my sketchbook,” said Sander, cupping Robbe’s cheek in his hand. “And those are all of you.”

Robbe’s cheeks pinked. He looked so cute Sander couldn’t help but pepper kisses all over Robbe’s face, until he was laughing, pushing him away. 

Sander caught Robbe’s bottom lip, worrying it between his teeth until Robbe whined, his fingers curling in the back of Sander’s hair. Sander released Robbe’s lip and kissed it, ever so gently, rolling on top of Robbe, his hips pinning him to the sheets. 

Robbe ran his hands down Sander’s chest. “I saw your art online,” Robbe admitted, looking shy. “It’s all over the department website.”

Sander cocked his head. “You what?” He stared at Robbe in wonderment. No one he’d dated had ever sought out his art before.

Robbe was carefully avoiding his eyes. Sander hooked his finger under Robbe’s chin, so Robbe was forced to look at him. 

“After we almost kissed that first time I was…” Robbe bit his lip, embarrassed. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you and—”

Sander kissed him. Robbe melted under him, his body liquid-loose and pliant, allowing Sander to scoop him into his arms and roll him over, so Robbe was half-on top of him again. Robbe folded his arms on Sander’s chest and rested his chin, staring up at Sander beneath his eyelashes. Sander ran his fingers down Robbe’s cheek.

“Sweet thing,” Sander whispered. 

Robbe looked straight into Sander’s eyes and kissed his palm. Sander’s stomach dipped. Robbe nestled back into Sander’s shoulder, resuming their earlier position. Idly, his fingers began to trace Sander’s tattoos again. He started at the crook of Sander’s elbow, looping around his bicep, his collarbone, down his chest. 

And then Sander began to talk. As Robbe’s finger stroked the razor-edge of the lightning bolt on his chest, he talked about the first Bowie album he ever listened to, when he was 12. A teacher had introduced it to him, an art teacher, the first person who’d ever looked at Sander and saw something in him, something worth cultivating, nurturing, coaching: the germ of a bud of a seed of a talent. Sander was off-the-walls _wild_ as a kid: he never meant to be bad, he didn’t, he just got excited, he ran his mouth too often, could never sit still, was always getting carried away by some idea or prank or vision that captured him until he saw it through. Most of his teachers could barely tolerate him, but this one, his art teacher, had told Sander he had a gift. He introduced Sander to a whole new planet of music and art and films, weird, cutting-edge beautiful avant-garde work that rocked Sander’s entire world.

Robbe kissed Sander’s chest, feather-light worshipful kisses along the fire-limned edge of the crimson planet inked into his sternum, and Sander told him about how he used to run away when he was a kid out the fire escape of their building and climb to the roof, an hour or so before sunrise.

“It was so lonely up there,” Sander whispered. “I don’t know why I went up there. I’d be mad or….or scared, or just restless and I’d need to go somewhere and up there it was peaceful, in a way, to somebody else maybe but—I never felt peaceful. I just felt alone. The city was so quiet, so empty. Everyone asleep but me. Like I was the only person on earth. I used to imagine that I was on Mars, that I was the only one. Just wandering and wandering, waiting to find some other sign of life and never finding it. Sometimes I’d have these dreams…” 

Sander closed his eyes, his fingers twisting in the sheets. Robbe rested his cheek on Sander’s chest, waiting, patient.

“…these dreams where—I’d finally find something. A person, another person with me, on Mars, finally, after all that searching. They’d have their back to me. And I’d reach them and I’d turn them around and I was so relieved but they’d look—they always looked so _afraid_ of me—”

Robbe hushed him, soothingly. He was leaning over Sander, stroking his cheek. “Hey, Sander, it’s okay—”

Sander hadn’t even realized how fast he was breathing, how much his body had tensed. Robbe cradled his face in his hands. Sander wondered if Robbe could feel his pulse. He felt like it might jackhammer out of his skin. 

He’d never told anyone about his tattoos before. Or his nightmares. No one had ever wanted Sander to be anything more than a surface: two-dimensional, a screen, a fiction. No one until Robbe.

Robbe kissed him. Sander let himself be kissed. The thing that ruined Sander the most about Robbe’s kisses were how _gentle_ they were. How _tender._ His kisses were offerings, given freely, asking nothing of Sander. With everyone else Sander had ever been with, kissing, sex, touching, all of it—it felt like something was being _taken_ from him. Something he couldn’t even articulate. It seemed that Sander’s entire life people had wanted something from him, wanted to turn him into a thing _,_ wanted to use him, whether for his talent or his body. When he’d got his first tattoo—the lightning bolt across the chest—he’d thought _good._ Now I’ve ruined myself. Now I’m marred, defaced, spoiled. I did this, me. This flesh of mine, it belongs to _me_. Nobody else. 

Only it hadn’t quite worked. All he’d done was trade one fantasy for another. 

His head was on Robbe’s shoulder now. Robbe was kissing Sander’s knuckles, his wrist, the winding veins of his forearms: the upper edge of a metallic-looking scale. His entire left forearm was covered in these scales, an intricate latticework of sharp silver edges. 

Sander met Robbe’s eyes. He saw the question waiting there, patient, curious. This was the only tattoo Sander hadn’t explained yet.

But he couldn’t bring himself to. His wounds still felt so impossibly raw. he kept waiting for the morning he would wake up and find them scabbed over, but it hadn’t happened yet: they were still wet with blood. And yet here was Robbe, peeling him apart, layer by tender layer, and it was beautiful and exhilarating and so terrifying that sometimes Sander thought he wouldn’t survive it. But he did. He always did. Robbe handled him so carefully.

“Another time,” Sander whispered. “Now we sleep.”

Robbe’s arms curled around his shoulders, obliging. Sander closed his eyes. 

But he never did sleep.

—

Robbe Izjermans was testing him. Sander’s will power was crumbling by the minute, and it was entirely Robbe’s fault.

Sander had never wanted to fuck somebody so badly in his _life._ Robbe wasn’t even doing anything, not really. He was just skating down a halfpipe—casually, irreverently, a lithe twist of hips, his hair tousled from the wind, honey-brown and curling _just so_ and looking more and more tempting by the second. Sander had already given up on trying to skate with him: Robbe had tried coaching him, patient and laid-back as ever, effortlessly in his element. The minute Robbe put his hands on Sander’s hips he became too distracted to listen to anything he was saying, his eyes drifting every half-second to Robbe’s mouth, overwhelmed by his need to kiss him senseless. There was something about the skatepark—Robbe’s friends nearby with their ever-present cameras and half-crushed beer cans and the filthy deep-bass of hip-hop playing through their speakers, the wild long-haired skater boys zooming past them in ever direction, _Sander’s_ wild long-haired skater boy looking good, sinfully good, so good Sander wasn’t sure how much longer he could resist staking his claim right there in public, in front of the entire skate park.

Sander adjusted his camera lens and aimed. Robbe was perched at the top of the half-pipe again. Jens and Moyo and Aaron were nearby, much more subdued than usual—Robbe told Sander he was pretty sure they were all a little bit in love with Sander, except for Jens, who Robbe thought was mostly just envious of him. Sander didn’t believe any of this for a second, but it was true that Robbe’s friends did tend to behave more when he was around. 

Robbe skated down the half-pipe. 

Sander snapped his photo. Robbe was airborne now—biting his lip with concentration, wily as a daredevil, skinny wrists in Sander’s too-big sweatshirt—and when he landed his trick, the boys all exploded with cheering. Robbe made a humble little bow and grinned, letting the boys ruffle his hair and pull him into a headlock. 

Sander lingered back, letting the boys have their turn with him. Finally Robbe was finally able to extricate himself from his friends and make his way over to Sander. Sander couldn’t help but give him a long, lazy, appreciative once-over. 

Robbe winked. A thrill snapped through Sander’s body, whip-sharp and electrifying. He tugged Robbe by his elbow and kissed him, a rough, thorough, proprietary sort of kiss. A kiss like a claim. Robbe, for his part, seemed to have no problem being claimed: he sank into Sander’s kiss shamelessly, hungrily. 

Sander was so completely _fucked._

The boys made their usual catcalls: Sander was becoming immune to them, though he could feel Robbe twist in his grip to give them the finger. 

Sander pulled away, throwing his arm over Robbe’s shoulder. They had a beer with the boys and sat on the rim of the empty pool, watching the sunset. Robbe leaning against Sander’s side, laughing at whatever story Moyo and Jens were telling. Sander was only half paying attention. He liked Robbe’s friends well enough: they were goofy and unpretentious, unlike so many of the people he knew in the art department. But he couldn’t help but distrust them. Though he knew it wasn’t their fault entirely, he couldn’t help but blame them for not taking better care of Robbe. 

But they were Robbe’s friends, and so Sander behaved himself: he regaled them with stories of bad behavior and drank their shitty beer and laughed at their silly Youtube clips when prompted. Though a part of him wanted to chew them out for barely checking on Robbe after this ordeal with his Mama, he knew Robbe preferred that Sander just keep the peace. 

Once they finished their beers, Sander and Robbe said goodbye to the boys and headed back to Sander’s. Robbe had a bag of clothes with him: he’d been spending every night with Sander anyway, so they figured he might as well bring over more of his stuff so they wouldn’t have to keep running over to his dorm room to grab things. 

“How was your Mama?” asked Sander as they boarded the bus. 

They found seats near the back, and Robbe put his head on Sander’s shoulder. Sander had dropped him off at the hospital that morning so Robbe could have breakfast with her before his Bio class.

“A little better, I think.” Robbe shrugged. He grabbed Sander’s hand and pulled it into his lap, threading their fingers together. “Thanks.”

“For what?” said Sander.

Robbe shrugged. “Just…being there. You’ve been so—” He looked down at his lap. Sander could see how tired he was now, the blueish shadows under his eye that weren’t obvious in the sunny skatepark. “Just…thank you.”

Sander kissed the top of Robbe’s head and pulled him to his feet as the bus pulled into their stop. They boarded the elevator to Senne’s penthouse, Robbe still leaning against him sleepily. 

“My friends still can’t really believe I’m with you,” Robbe said as the elevator doors opened. He followed Sander to his room.

“Why?” Sander laughed as he collapsed onto his bed, pulling Robbe into his lap. Robbe looped his arms around Sander’s shoulders. With a self-deprecating grin, Sander added, “Can’t believe the dickhead fuckboy finally settled down?” 

Robbe rolled his eyes. “Oh no. Trust me, they think you’re _very_ impressive.”

Sander quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? And what about you, Robbe?” Sander ghosted his lips teasingly against Robbe’s. “Do you think I’m _very_ impressive?”

“I think you’re pure evil,” Robbe whispered. 

Sander’s face broke into a grin as he flipped Robbe over onto the bed. “Evil?” he said, nipping at Robbe’s bottom lip.

“ _Sander…_ ” Robbe whined. 

“Hm?” said Sander. He couldn’t help but tease him. Robbe looked so lovely when he was teased, and besides, Robbe had been tempting him all day, chipping painfully away at Sander’s iron-will, and now Sander felt like getting a bit of revenge. “You got something to say, baby?”

Robbe lifted his face to be kissed, practically pleading with him. Sander obliged, kissing everything but Robbe’s mouth: his cheeks, his jawline, his throat. Sander’s hands crawled under his sweatshirt, feeling the feverish warmth of Robbe’s skin. Robbe lifted his hips, hopefully. 

Sander took a deep breath, steeling himself. He rolled over, letting Robbe crawl on top of him. Robbe’s lips finally met his, and Sander kissed him, slowly and deeply, his fingers in Robbe’s hair. 

And though Robbe clearly wanted more than just kissing, Sander did not let it escalate. Eventually Robbe settled his head in the crook of Sander’s neck, and they held each other, a tense loaded silence filling the space between them. 

“Sander?” Robbe started, sounding apprehensive. Sander stiffened. Robbe had been so good. But of course he was curious, of course Robbe was going to ask. Sander sighed, what was he thinking, how much longer did he think he could go without an explanation—

“Why haven’t you unpacked your stuff yet?” Robbe asked. 

Sander’s entire body went slack with relief. That was not the question he’d been expecting.

He chewed at the corner of his mouth, considering his answer carefully. There was still so much he needed to tell Robbe, but he could only bear so much at once. “It’s….hard for me to unpack, I guess. I’ve had to move around a lot. I think…I’m afraid that once I finally feel safe to settle down, I’ll have to leave again.”

“Senne wouldn’t ever make you leave,” Robbe whispered.

Sander’s smile was bittersweet. Robbe and Senne had slowly become each other’s biggest fans: Senne was delighted that Sander had finally settled down “with a nice boy,” a comment Sander had mocked him for for hours, teasing that Senne sounded like his grandmother. He rested his cheek against the top of Robbe’s head, inhaling the warm, faintly vanilla scent of Robbe’s shampoo.

“I think you should unpack,” said Robbe. “You haven’t even put anything on the walls.”

“You’re the only decoration I need,” said Sander.

Robbe rolled his eyes. “Sander, that doesn’t even make sense.”

“Shhh, yes it does,” Sander assured him, pinning Robbe to the sheets. 

“It doesn’t,” Robbe protested, cackling as Sander grabbed him in the ticklish, sensitive curve of his waist. 

Robbe managed to flip Sander over and straddle him. Sander settled his hands on Robbe’s hips, under his too-big sweatshirt. He pressed his thumbs into the twin dimples at the base of Robbe’s spine. Sander squeezed, just enough that he felt Robbe’s hips give a violent twitch. His hands were big enough to engulf the small of Robbe’s back. 

He was getting hard. Painfully so. He could feel Robbe was too. He wanted to fuck Robbe so badly it made him feel ill. He felt unhinged. Almost delirious. Craving a drug he hadn’t even let himself try. 

Sander knew it wouldn’t last forever. Everything about Robbe seemed meticulously constructed to destroy Sander’s will-power. Eventually, inevitably, he was going to give in.

But Sander was terrified. Sex had ruined every single relationship Sander had ever had. He knew, intellectually, that there were millions of couples out there with healthy sex lives full of give and take and beautiful, reciprocal lovemaking. Sander had just never been one of them. Sex had always been just another battleground, a tipping of scales, a stage on which Sander performed the role desired of him. Sex was never without strings. Sex was how he expressed gratitude, how he apologized, how he negotiated. He wished he knew how to disentangle sex from all of its dangerous associations, but he didn’t. He wanted so badly to try—and Robbe, sweet gentle devastatingly _breathtaking_ Robbe, who asked nothing of him, who gave everything—wouldn’t he be the perfect boy to try with? 

But that was exactly what terrified Sander. He’d never had anything this good before. This painless, this beautiful, this safe. He couldn’t shake the fear that if he gave in, if he opened that dimension of their relationship, that Sander would fall into the same traps that always defeated him.

This time, it was Robbe who rolled off of Sander and went to the kitchen to get them water. Sander scrubbed his hands over his face. Robbe was so patient with him.

But everybody had a breaking point. Even Robbe. And Sander knew it was only a matter of time before Robbe decided that this, what they had, wasn’t enough. 

—

The next morning both Robbe and Sander had early commitments on campus. Robbe had a 9 AM Biology lab, and Sander had a meeting scheduled with his advisor, one of the painters who led the art department. Sander had workshops well into the evening, which meant he probably wouldn’t get to see Robbe again until nighttime. 

They got coffee and croissants on their way to campus. Sander walked Robbe to class since he still had some time to spare before his meeting. He saw dozens of eyes follow them down the hallway, whispers behind cupped hands. They were walking through the busy quad, Sander’s arm looped casually over Robbe’s shoulder, listening as Robbe told him about the boys’ newest vlog idea. Sander felt like an exhibit in a zoo: _look, it’s the school fuckboy, finally tamed._

If Robbe noticed the stares, he didn’t mention it. He just kissed Sander’s hand and threaded their fingers together, continuing on with his story as if no one were watching them.

Sander gave Robbe a quick kiss on the cheek and left him in front of the Biological Sciences building. His advisor’s office was in the bottom floor of the visual arts center, below the gallery. Sander showed him some of the stuff he’d been working on, mostly sketches for larger paintings he envisioned. 

All the sketches, of course, were of Robbe. His advisor flipped through them in wonderment. They were so much lighter than Sander’s usual work. Most of Sander’s paintings were intense, fierce, brutal, almost tortured. Lurid colors and violent brushstrokes, feverish, blistering, choleric. 

But these, his advisor told him, were effervescent. Usually Sander’s work burned: these electrified. He told Sander they were brilliant. Enough for a solo showcase next fall. 

Sander left the meeting practically fizzing over with giddiness. He took out his phone.

Sander: _i’m taking you out tonight._

Robbe: _any particular occasion?_

Sander: _you’re the occasion._

Robbe: _me?_

Sander: _you._

Robbe: _okay :) but…i have something for you too_

Sander: _are you stealing my moves, ijzermans? i thought i was the one with surprises._

Robbe: _what can i say? i’ve learned from the best_

Robbe: _come back to your place once you’re done with workshop tonight. i’ll be there <3 _

The rest of the day passed unbearably slowly. Even Advanced Painting, his favorite class, felt like a massive drag. All Sander wanted to do was get home to Robbe. 

Finally, at 8 PM, they were released from class. Sander thanked the model: she was a recurring model for them, and she and Sander often chatted after class. Sander had a hard time painting people if he didn’t get to know them. Otherwise it made him feel like he was painting a surface. Sander wanted immersion. He wanted to reconstruct a person from the inside-out. He wanted to get the shades of their eyes just right, not the color, but the depth. You couldn’t paint the way Sander painted if you only studied an exterior. He needed to see inside their rooms. 

He rode his bike home, since it tended to be faster than the bus in the evening.

“Robbe?” Sander called out, tossing his keys into the dish in the foyer. 

“In here!” Robbe answered from his bedroom. 

Sander threw down his bag. The apartment smelled good, like there was something in the oven. But there was something else too, candles, maybe incense. 

He went to his bedroom. 

He closed his eyes and opened them again.

It looked nothing like his bedroom. 

All of the cardboard boxes were gone. The open suitcases he kept against the wall were gone. The walls—barren white—were covered in prints, some of the vintage Bowie posters he’d kept in plastic sleeves in his boxes, and some of his own art. Now they were framed all over the room, above his bed and his desk. There was a plant hanging from the ceiling, near the window, and even more plants—succulents, tiny terrariums—on his desk and bedside table. All of his books were lining the shelves, all of his records. Sander was sure if he looked in the dresser and closet, he’d see all of his clothes, neatly arranged. 

And in the center of it all was Robbe, chewing anxiously on the corner of his lip, rocking on his heels. He had his arms crossed over his chest, clutching his own shoulders. 

Sander realized it had been at least two minutes since he said anything. Slowly, he made his way to the dresser, idly opening drawers. All of his clothes were neatly folded. 

“Where’s my suitcase?” said Sander hoarsely.

“It’s in the closet,” said Robbe quickly. “I could put it somewhere else—”

Sander shook his head. He went to his book shelf, running his finger along the spines. Robbe had even unearthed his record player. He’d organized his vinyl collection alphabetically. In his closet all of his shoes were neatly lined up, instead of piled into a duffel bag. 

He could see Robbe in his periphery, still worrying at his lip. “Senne was the one who got the plants, by the way, but if you don’t like them we could go to the nursery together and get something else—”

Sander crossed the room, took Robbe’s face into his hands, and kissed him. Robbe’s mouth parted, surprised, before relaxing into the kiss. 

“You…” Sander shook his head, running his thumbs along Robbe’s cheeks, still feeling too overwhelmed to speak. Robbe grinned, shyly. Sander kissed the corner of his mouth. “I can’t believe you did all this.”

Robbe shrugged. “It really wasn’t hard. Senne helped me. And besides, you’ve done so much for me these past couple of weeks. I figured this was the least I could do…”

Sander rested his forehead against Robbe’s. He had never been good at saying thank you, or sorry. At least not verbally. He still couldn’t really believe that Robbe was his. He’d never felt gratitude like this before, and he needed Robbe to know how special he was.

“I just…” Sander swallowed, hard. He brushed his lips against Robbe’s cheek. “I just—I’m so lucky to have you—”

“It’s not luck,” said Robbe gently. “Sander, if you understood even _half_ of what you make me feel, every day—”

Knuckles wrapped on the door frame. Sander pulled away. Senne’s head appeared, a satisfied grin spreading on his face. He was wearing sweats and sneakers and a beanie pulled low over his face, like he’d just gotten back from the gym. 

“Senne motherfucking _De Smet,_ ” said Sander, shaking his head, pulling Senne into an affectionate headlock. 

“It was all his idea,” said Senne, pointing at Robbe. 

“But Senne helped!” Robbe added.

“I helped a little,” Senne admitted. 

Sander felt too overwhelmed to speak. Robbe and Senne were showing Sander all the little touches he hadn't noticed on first glance, and Sander sat on the edge of his desk, watching his boyfriend and his best friend prattle on, teasing each other, excitedly pointing out every little detail of his bedroom to Sander.

And then Senne took off his beanie, and Sander saw that he had a black eye. 

Sander was on his feet in seconds. He gripped Senne’s face, tilting it towards the light. The smile fell off Senne’s face immediately. His jaw tensed, letting Sander examine him with a resigned sigh. 

“Tell me,” said Sander quietly, trying to keep his rage at bay. Robbe sat tentatively at the edge of his bed, wide-eyed. 

“No fucking way,” Senne muttered, ripping his face from Sander’s grip.

“Why not?” Sander demanded.

“Because I know you, Sander,” said Senne dully. “And you’ll do something stupid.”

“It was those fucking elite school assholes, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, and I broke the guy’s fucking jaw, so just _leave it—”_

“You told me that shit was over,” said Sander, getting in Senne’s face. 

“Yeah, and you nearly fucking killed him the last time you were involved, so—” Senne countered fiercely.

Sander ran a furious hand through his hair. A blur of movement caught in his eye. Robbe was backing towards the door now, as if to give he and Senne privacy. 

“Robbe…” said Sander, immediately softening. “I’m sorry.” Sander turned back to Senne. “Look, I’ll drop it, okay?”

Senne raised a wry eyebrow and looked past Sander, at Robbe. “‘Sorry’? Damn, kid. I’ve never been able to get this guy to say _sorry—_ ”

Sander rolled his eyes. 

Senne patted Sander’s shoulder. “Look. I’ve got it under control, okay? Now why don’t you stop worrying about me and start thanking your very thoughtful boyfriend, yeah?”

Sander gently punched Senne in the arm, which was to say, _fine._

“I’ll be at Zoe’s for the night,” said Senne. He winked at Sander and Robbe from the door frame. “Enjoy your new room.”

He shut the door behind them. Sander slowly made his way over to Robbe, who grabbed Sander by his t-shirt and pulled Sander close, hip to hip. Sander boxed him in against the wall. They studied each other quietly, drinking each other in.

“There’s a pizza in the oven,” Robbe murmured, his mouth inching towards Sander’s. 

“Homemade?” Sander teased. Robbe was talented at many things, but cooking definitely wasn’t one of them.

Robbe rolled his eyes and took Sander by the wrist, pulling him to the kitchen. Sander found the oven mitts and took the pizza out. They ate in the kitchen. Robbe sat on the counter. Sander stood in the gap between Robbe’s knees, feeding Robbe bites of pizza. Sander told him about what his advisor had said, about how he might get a solo fall showcase for his work, based solely on the strength of his sketch plans. 

“My artist,” Robbe murmured, running his fingers appreciatively through Sander’s hair. He looked so delectable, perched there on the counter, so willing and unguarded. Sander’s need for him was intolerable, burning under his skin.

The kiss Sander gave him was dirty, deep and probing, his fingers fisting in the back of Robbe’s hair, pulling until he heard Robbe gasp into his mouth. Sander’s hands swallowed Robbe’s thighs, squeezing. His thumbs were dangerously close, close enough to feel how hard Robbe was getting. Sander couldn’t resist dragging his pelvis against Robbe’s. His mouth skated down Robbe’s neck, sucking a mark over his pulse. Robbe’s arms hugged Sander’s neck, his thighs squeezing Sander’s hips. Sander bit down, gently, feeling Robbe’s fingers digging almost painfully into his shoulders. 

“Sander—” Robbe released a sharp intake of breath as Sander’s hips squirmed against his, the friction almost unbearable. 

Every barrier, every fortification, every careful shield he’d constructed was slowly crumbling, as surely and inexorably as though he were sinking into quicksand. He couldn’t resist anymore. 

Sander pushed his head into Robbe’s neck. He slammed his fist against the counter, not hard, but enough that Robbe flinched, stiffening in Sander’s grip. 

“ _Fuck—_ ” Sander exhaled. He was shaking. He was actually shaking. He felt Robbe’s fingers curl uneasily in his t-shirt. 

Sander let him go, backing away. His hands went to his own hair, fists clenching in frustration, before releasing. He went to the sink and filled a glass at the faucet. He could hear Robbe’s slow sigh behind him. He put the glass on the counter, not drinking it. He braced himself against the sink, trying to catch his breath. Trying to arrange his brain—his sick, terrible brain—into some semblance of order. He had to explain it. He’d exhausted his every resource. 

Robbe said nothing. Sander scrubbed his hands over his face, unable to turn and face him.

“…I know,” Sander breathed. “I know you’re wondering.”

“Wondering what?” said Robbe. Sander closed his eyes, bracing himself.

“Why I keep…stopping,” said Sander, gripping the sink. “And you’re too patient and too good to ask it, but I know you’re thinking it.”

“Thinking about why you won’t sleep with me, you mean?” said Robbe quietly.

Sander’s chest gave a painful lurch. Slowly, he turned. Robbe’s had his hands between his knees. He looked so small. His hair was still tousled from where Sander had been pulling it, a pink bruise darkening on his throat. 

“It’s okay,” said Robbe gently. “You don’t…you don’t owe me that. We can go as slow as you need. There’s no rush. I just…” Robbe’s face fell. “I just wish you’d talk to me.”

Sander rested his cheek against the wall. “Why are you so good?” he laughed a miserable not-laugh. “You’re so fucking… _patient._ And good. _Fuck—_ ”

“Oh that’s a turn-on, is it? That I’m _good?_ ” Robbe smiled in a self-deprecating sort of way that made Sander’s chest ache.

“Fuck yeah it is,” Sander breathed. He took a step closer to Robbe, then stopped himself. “My little fire-breather, my little daredevil skater-boy, such a _good boy_ underneath all that—” he swallowed roughly, gesturing at Robbe. “ _Fucking hell,_ Robbe. I’m going crazy. It’s all I can think about. I want…” He shook his head. “—I want to do so many things to you.”

“Bad things?” said Robbe, his dark eyes pinning Sander where he stood. It wasn’t so long ago that Robbe had breathed those same words to him, light from the hot tub dancing across his face, looking like trouble, looking like every sin Sander had ever wanted to commit contained in one compact too-pretty package, looking like a goddamn _dream._

“The worst fucking things,” Sander whispered. “I wanna wreck you.”

Sander could _see_ the way that made Robbe shiver. 

“And I’m sure you have some profound self-sacrificing reason why you can’t, right?” Robbe said, his voice hoarse. “You’re too bad? You’ll hurt me?”

Sander stopped breathing.

“I’ve told you: you don’t scare me. Okay? And besides,” said Robbe, the corner of his mouth twisting. “I can take it.”

“You can’t say things like that,” said Sander softly.

“Why not?” 

“Because I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you, and now I’m hard.”

Robbe hopped deftly off of the counter. They were still feet away from each other. He looked right into Sander’s face and said, “Sander, I’ll get on my knees and suck you off right now on the kitchen floor if you say the word.”

Sander’s knees nearly gave out. He released a frustrated laugh into his hands, so turned-on he couldn’t even _think._

“ _Trouble_ …” he muttered. “I told you. I knew it the second I saw you. It’s you—you’d be the one. You’re nothing but fucking _trouble._ ”

“You haven’t even seen what I can do,” said Robbe quietly. “I’m very talented.”

“Oh, I’m sure you are,” said Sander. They were close enough now that Sander could’ve leaned down and kissed him if he wanted. “I have no doubt about that.”

“Then can I show you?” said Robbe, his gaze falling from Sander’s eyes to his mouth. “Please?”

“You’re really fucking testing me, you know that?” Sander whispered.

“Do you have an STD or something?” said Robbe. “A life-threatening illness? Is your dick broken?”

Sander laughed helplessly, scrubbing his hands over his face. He was so stupid for thinking he could resist Robbe Ijzermans.

“Come on,” said Robbe, taking Sander’s hand in his. “Let’s go back to your room.”

Sander let Robbe take his hand, but he resisted his pull. “I’m scared to be in bed with you,” he admitted.

“Why?”

“Because I’m gonna wanna fuck you,” said Sander roughly.

“Sander—” Robbe sighed in frustration. _This was it,_ thought Sander _._ This was the moment Robbe’s patience finally broke. That he finally decided this wasn’t enough. “I—look. Your whole teasing thing is hot, it’s mind-numbingly hot, in fact it’s literally fucking up my entire _life_ but shit, man. Look, I’m tired.” Robbe released Sander’s hand. Sander ducked his head, unable to look at him any longer. “I’m gonna go back to your room. I can keep all my clothes on, if that helps. Please come in soon and we’ll just…we’ll just sleep, okay?”

For a long moment Sander said nothing. Finally, he nodded, wretchedly. Robbe began to walk away. Then he stopped. 

“But…” Slowly, Robbe turned around to face him. Sander forced himself to meet Robbe’s eyes. “I want you to know…you really can talk to me,” said Robbe. “Okay? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. You can talk to me about anything.”

Sander turned to drink the glass of water he’d left on the counter, his hands shaking a little. He closed his eyes, hearing the sound of Robbe returning to his bedroom. Covers rustling. Sander began cleaning up the kitchen, putting their plates in the dishwasher, cleaning crumbs from the counter. He filled up another glass of water for Robbe and finally, composing himself, he went to his bedroom.

Robbe was already under the covers, his headphones in, watching something on his laptop. He took out his headphones and closed it carefully when he saw Sander in the door frame, putting it on the nightstand beside him. 

Sander crawled into bed. He put his head in Robbe’s lap. Immediately, Robbe’s fingers were in his hair, gently scratching his scalp, stroking his hair away from his forehead. A long, shaky breath escaped from him. He wondered idly if anyone had ever cared about him the way Robbe did.

And so he began to talk.

He told Robbe that he was sixteen when he ran away from home for good. He’d been running away since he was thirteen, crashing for weeks at Senne’s, but he always came back home eventually. 

Not this time. It was because of his dad, mostly. His father was an asshole. He’d never accepted Sander, never had a kind word to say about him, and he treated Sander and his mom like shit. He never hit Sander, but he didn’t have to—he and Sander would get in violent screaming matches and throw things, coffee mugs and plates and once, a chair that had shattered one of his Mama’s framed paintings. Sander would scream so loudly he was afraid he’d permanently fucked up his vocal chords: he was never quite able to lose the rough, hoarse quality of his voice. They’d scream so loudly that their neighbors used to call the cops on them. Sander’s mama would always go to the door and manage to convince the cops that everything was fine, and Sander would sneak out of the window in his bedroom, still shaking, so furious with his father that he couldn’t breathe. Sometimes it would get bad enough that his Mama would kick his dad out, force him to sleep in a hotel room, but she always, always, always let him back. It drove Sander mad. Quite literally, mad. He did everything he could to get revenge on his father: he’d throw gigantic parties, just to piss him off. He started bleaching his hair. He accumulated more and more tattoos. He took his anger out at school. He fought everybody, his teachers, his classmates, everyone. He’d skip school for weeks on end, staying out as late as he could, only coming into his room to sleep, and leaving again before sunrise. Sometimes his father would make some gesture of peace: usually, he’d take Sander on some trip, fishing, hiking, camping. 

But the peace never lasted long. Soon they’d be fighting again. Sander’s mama was an artist, too, a successful one. Once she’d sent them both to the store to pick up some paint she’d ordered, hoping they would end up talking and reconciling. Instead his father had started in on him again—that Sander was a fuck-up, that he was crazy, he was destructive, that he and his mama’s life was so much easier before Sander was born. 

So Sander said, okay. I’ll show you destructive. He threw his Mama’s expensive paint all over his father’s car. It was the first time they’d almost actually physically fought: Sander couldn’t stop shouting, neither could his father, and eventually Sander was so furious he threw himself out of the moving car.

He broke his arm. That’s why he got that tattoo, he explained, showing Robbe the metal scales that coated his forearm. 

Sander was sixteen, then. He’d become someone he hated so much. And so that’s when he finally ran away, for good. 

He was seeing a girl at the time, this girl Britt. They’d been dating for about six months. Cute rich girl, nothing that serious, but when he ran away she said he could just stay at hers. Her parents were never home anyways. They’d already been sleeping together for a while but after that, once he started living with her, depending on her, everything changed. She was putting a roof over his head, feeding him, taking care of him. Sander felt _kept._ He had nothing. He was nothing without her. He had nothing to give her but his body. All he could offer her in exchange was sex. 

He could feel how unhealthy their relationship was, how dangerous it was becoming. And so finally, he left. He’d stay with Senne for a few weeks until he found a new girlfriend. He kept swinging from girlfriend to girlfriend, and then guys, too, once Sander figured out he also liked boys. He moved from one bed to the next. It was never a problem of availability. It seemed like everywhere Sander went, somebody wanted to fuck him. And so he’d let them. He forgot how to say no. Sex made him useful: it was the only thing he had to give. In exchange, he had a place to sleep. It wasn’t that the sex was bad—it’s that it was purely transactional, toxic, oppressive. His entire self-worth orbited around how fuckable he was. He felt like sex was something he owed someone if they were kind to him, if they gave him a place to sleep. But then they wanted more and more, taking from him and taking from him until he had nothing left for himself.

It was Senne who finally noticed the toll this was taking on him. He demanded that Sander move into his place. Sander hated charity: he was allergic to it, he despised it, it made him feel useless, sick, worthless. He had only his own crumbling self-dignity, and he was beginning to lose even that. He had nothing to give back. 

But Senne ignored his protests. He moved Sander’s shit into his bedroom all on his own, leaving him no choice. 

Sander didn’t stop sleeping with people. He still had urges, needs, desires. He just cut it off quickly. One and done. That way, he could keep it on his own terms. It was better, safer, healthier this way.

Until Robbe. He knew he’d never be able to fuck Robbe just once and walk away. It had to be everything, or nothing. He’d tried so hard to resist. 

Robbe carded his fingers through Sander’s hair as Sander spoke. Sander lifted his eyes to meet Robbe’s. He felt so vulnerable. 

But even more powerful than that was his _relief._ He hadn’t even told Senne most of what he’d just told Robbe. He hadn’t even realized how badly he needed to release it.

“I’m sorry,” Robbe whispered. Sander’s head was still in his lap. Robbe leaned down to kiss his forehead. “I’m sorry you were treated that way and I wish…I wish you didn’t have to go through all that. But you’re not alone anymore.”

Sander took Robbe’s hand from his hair and kissed his knuckles. He felt too fragile to speak anymore.

“Come here,” Robbe whispered, lifting Sander gently so he was under the covers with him. 

Sander buried his face in Robbe’s neck. Robbe traced his face.

“I love you,” Sander whispered. He could feel Robbe’s heart hammering under his cheek. His felt the same. Sander played with the guardian angel charm around Robbe’s throat.

“I love you too,” Robbe breathed into his hair, hugging him tight, so tight it almost hurt. But he understood better than ever why Robbe loved being held like this. He’d never felt this safe. He didn’t even know it was _possible_ to feel this safe. Sleep, for Sander, was often just another war-zone. Around every bend was some former hurt, some childhood rage, some bad memory buzzing around his mind, picking at the bones of him until he was nothing but a skull, a databank of unwanted sensations: the phantom impression of a shout in his ear, the smash of a plate, a fist thumping into the wall.

But tonight, his brain was perfectly silent. For the first time in what felt like _ages,_ Sander actually managed to sleep, deeply, and without dreams.

—

It was morning. Robbe was recounting the entire plot of a movie he’d watched that week with his Mama in her hospital bed, some terrible Lifetime channel made-for-TV film involving a stalkerish ex-husband, a sweet librarian, a kind mailman who she ultimately falls in love with. The room smelled of plants and incense, dusty books and laundry. Cups of coffee half-finished on the night stand, a pale damp coffee stain on the collar of Robbe’s t-shirt—Sander’s t-shirt, actually, too-big and swamping Robbe, exposing the tempting hollows of Robbe’s collar bones. Clumsy boy. Olive-gold limbs and slim waist and eyes the color of cinnamon peering up at Sander under sleep-rumpled brown hair. Toothpaste kisses. The warmth of a bony spine under Sander’s fingers, each vertebrae a wonder. Everything Sander never thought he could have. 

By noon they were still in bed, the sheets puddled on the floor, their feet on opposite ends of the bed, their heads on each other’s shoulders, a joint passed back and forth. Sander took Robbe by the jaw and blew smoke into his mouth, laughing when ash almost fell into Robbe’s eyes. They discussed a dozen different movies they might watch, debating the merits and pitfalls of each with painstaking detail, though they never actually selected one. 

By 1 PM they were hungry, but too lazy to move. Robbe had his head on Sander’s lap now. They were both only wearing sweatpants, their t-shirts long abandoned. Robbe was gazing at Sander, the tiniest smile twisting the corner of his beautiful little rosebud of a mouth.

“What?” said Sander, poking Robbe’s nose.

“Nothing,” said Robbe, resting his cheek on Sander’s stomach. He resumed his now-standard practice of idly tracing Sander’s tattoos. Though he kept glancing at Sander’s face.

“What is it?” Sander laughed.

“I just like looking at you,” said Robbe, with a sheepish sort of grin. “Is that a crime?”

A self-satisfied grin spread across Sander’s face. It was his natural impulse to tease, but something about the way Robbe was looking at him stopped him. Sander couldn’t quite describe the quality of this particular look, perhaps because it felt so different from how everyone else looked at him. It was reverent, almost. Admiring. Certainly Sander had been admired before, but not like this. This look was somehow extrasensory. It saw past Sander’s surface, it saw each and every one of his rooms: dusty, cobwebbed corners, hidden attics, closeted skeletons.

“I wish I could draw you,” said Robbe softly. 

Sander’s heart fumbled in his chest. _This boy._

“What’s stopping you?” Sander murmured, drawing his finger along Robbe’s mouth. 

“You’ll laugh at me,” said Robbe, punching Sander gently.

Sander gasped, mock-hurt. “I would never laugh at you.”

Robbe pulled a face.

“Okay so I’d laugh at you, _but—”_

Robbe rolled off the bed dramatically. Sander caught him by the wrist and manhandled him into the center of the bed. Robbe fought, weakly, though he gave in with suspicious ease. Sander grinned, wickedly. It had not escaped his attention that Robbe definitely did not mind being tossed around a little.

“Let’s try,” said Sander. “I have all the materials right here.”

Robbe narrowed his eyes at him. 

“I’ll be an _excellent_ teacher,” Sander assured him, with only a hint of mockery. “And I just know you’ll be a very good student, won’t you, Robin?”

Robbe nodded, his throat working, as though he were too turned-on to respond.

“Come on,” said Sander, snapping his fingers. He went to his desk and put Robbe in the chair. He opened his sketchbook to a clean page and leaned over Robbe’s shoulder, showing him how to properly hold his pencil, to grip it lightly. He showed him how to look at something: to really look at it, to see the way light hit, its shadows and depths. 

“Now draw me,” Sander instructed. He was enjoying bossing Robbe around a little too much. He sat on the foot of his bed, biting back a grin at the adorable look of concentration on Robbe’s face, his tongue poking between his teeth, his brow knitted. 

“I wanna see,” said Sander impatiently.

“It’s literally been five minutes,” said Robbe. “Relax.”

“You’re doing a great job, baby,” said Sander.

“You can’t say that—you haven’t even seen it!” said Robbe.

“Well I know it will be, because everything you do is perfect.”

“Shut up,” Robbe muttered, his cheeks flushing.

“Is it done yet?” 

“Oh my god you’re _impossible_ ,” said Robbe, but Sander was already climbing to his feet. He took the sketchbook from Robbe’s hands, ignoring his protests, using his height advantage to hold it out Robbe’s reach. 

The drawing was, of course, terrible. Sander burst out laughing. Robbe jumped onto his back and wrestled the sketchbook out of his hands. He was surprisingly strong.

“You promised you wouldn’t laugh!” Robbe yelled, hugging the sketchbook to his chest. Sander wiped a tear from his cheek, which hurt a bit from laughing. 

“Baby,” Sander cooed, taking Robbe’s face into his hands. 

“Don’t—” Robbe whined, but he had no free hands to push Sander away, and so he was helpless against him. Sander kissed every inch of his face, carefully maneuvering the sketchbook from Robbe’s iron-grip. 

“An A for effort, Mr. Ijzermans,” Sander teased. Robbe rolled his eyes. “But now it’s my turn.”

“Huh?” said Robbe.

“On the bed. Get comfy, Rose,” said Sander, gesturing at Robbe impatiently. Robbe just stood there, dumbstruck. “I thought you were a DiCaprio fan.”

“We are _not_ doing that. _”_

“Oh but we _are_ _,_ pretty boy. Come on, I’ve always wanted to draw you.”

“You draw me all the time.”

“Yes, but those are from memory. This is different. It’ll be so much better. Come on, Robbe.” He gave Robbe his best puppy-eyes. “Please?”

He could see Robbe’s defenses weakening. Sander batted his eyes a little.

Robbe sighed, defeated. “Fine.”

“That’s my boy,” Sander grinned, pushing Robbe’s shoulders until he was sitting on the bed. “I’ve decided I’m going to paint you, actually.”

Sander’s easel and canvas weren’t in his usual spot, since Robbe had rearranged his room. Robbe directed him to the closet, where he’d neatly stored most of his art equipment. 

“And my paint?” 

“Oh,” said Robbe, climbing off the bed. He knelt in front of Sander’s desk and began rooting around the bottom drawer. “I think I put them in here…”

Sander found his paint brushes in a mug on his desk. He looked down to check on Robbe’s progress at the same second that Robbe lifted his eyes to meet his. Robbe was still on his knees, his face inches from Sander’s dick, still hidden in a very unforgiving pair of grey sweatpants. 

An entire century seemed to play out in that single, electrifying second. Robbe gulped. Every drop of blood in Sander’s body coursed southward, all at once. 

“I…I found it,” Robbe stammered.

“Found what?” said Sander dumbly.

“The paint?”

“Oh, right—” Sander scrubbed his hands over his face and took a step back. Robbe was still on his knees. 

“I got, um…” Robbe started awkwardly, clearly as affected as Sander was, “brown and white, red, there’s some others, too…”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good. That’s good,” said Sander. “Stand up.”

Robbe stood up, quickly. 

“Stand over there,” Sander directed, gesturing towards the door. “Wait, never mind. Just sit back on the bed.”

“Okay?” said Robbe slowly. He moved towards the bed. In one easy movement, one nimble twist of hips, Robbe removed his sweatpants, leaving him completely bare.

“I didn’t tell you to do that,” said Sander softly. 

“Do you want me to put them back on?” said Robbe, looking at Sander with a hint of a dare. 

Sander took a step closer to him. Then another. Robbe fists clenched in the sheets on either side of him, but he didn’t move. He just watched Sander approach, his expression impassive. Only the slightest hint of trepidation. 

“No,” said Sander.

Sander’s bare abdomen was inches from Robbe’s mouth. Robbe leaned forward. Sander could feel the heat of his breath against his stomach. 

And then, the lightest brush of lips. Right on the blade-edge of Sander’s hipbone. Robbe looked up, as if it to ask if that was okay.

Sander’s throat worked. His stomach was in knots.

He nodded. 

Robbe pulled him closer by the hips. He kissed his stomach again. Sander’s fingers curled in his hair and pulled. It was not a gentle pull. Robbe looked up. _Fuck_ he was pretty. Sander’s fingers tightened in Robbe’s hair and pulled again, until a sweet, unthinking sort of sound fell from Robbe’s mouth, as if he couldn’t help it.

Sander stepped back from the bed, his fingers still in Robbe’s hair. Robbe went to his knees again. 

“Sander…” Robbe started, a question in his voice. 

But Sander didn’t feel like answering any questions. He’d waited long enough. He’d made _Robbe_ wait long enough. His need for Robbe no longer felt like need: it felt like a wound. His desire had not weakened with time: his restraint had only emboldened it, strengthened his desire until it had material weight, mass, depth, muscle. Sander had no defenses left. He no longer needed them. Before Robbe, he had mistaken many monsters for love, because he had never known real love before. Real love did not strike down his door: it knocked. It asked. 

And for the first time in his life, Sander was ready to let it in.

He knew Robbe wanted to beg for it. But Robbe was stopping himself. It was as though he was waiting for Sander’s cue, and it was so breathtaking that Sander couldn’t help but drag out the moment. Sex had never been on Sander’s terms before. Even when he’d had lovers who wanted Sander to be in control—which was a not-infrequent occurrence—control was a misnomer, a technicality. He was still just playing the part they wanted. 

“I’m gonna fuck you,” said Sander. 

Robbe’s eyes fluttered closed. He nodded. Sander pet his hair back from his forehead, much gentler now. He lifted Robbe’s face. He was the most exquisite thing Sander had ever seen. Robbe’s eyes opened, slowly, the darkest most soulful brown. Sander ran his thumb along Robbe’s bottom lip. Robbe kissed the pad of his thumb and accepted it into his mouth.

He was still looking up at Sander. Sander’s stomach jerked. His knees felt like they might give out. He didn’t know somebody could look somehow both innocent and obscene, _wanton_ , all at once.

“Get on the bed,” said Sander, his voice no more than a rough rasp of syllables. 

He helped lift Robbe back to his feet. He spread Robbe out on the sheets. He took his time with him, working Robbe right to the edge of his release with his fingers and mouth over and over again and then pulling back, until Robbe was pleading with him. He was lissome and eager beneath Sander, his hair spilling across the sheets, so beautifully receptive to each and every one of Sander’s touches. Sander was merciless and tender, sensitive and ruthless.

But Robbe? Robbe was a dream. He followed Sander willingly down every path, enduring every one of Sander’s whims bravely, unguardedly. Robbe was vulnerable in a way that nearly broke Sander’s heart. 

And when Sander finally entered him, certain that Robbe wouldn’t be in any pain, he nearly wept with relief. Robbe was so good for him. It was clumsy, and too-quick, and they both made sounds that they would mock each other for relentlessly, later. They laughed when things went awry: a disobedient condom, lube spilling on sheets, a sex position that nearly sent Robbe toppling off the bed. They couldn’t stop kissing each other, not for a second. 

It was the best sex Sander had ever had.

They showered together afterwards, feeling giddy and light-headed and love-drunk. They washed each other’s hair and had messy sex under the shower spray, slower this time, luxurious, taking their time with it. Sander’s mouth worshipped each and every knob in Robbe’s spine. They fucked until they were oversensitive, until the water began to cool. 

They spent the rest of the evening naked, dressing only to collect their takeout, which they ate in the living room, overlooking the sprawl of city lights. They fucked once more against the window, unable to help themselves. Now that he’d fucked Robbe once, he was certain he’d never be able to stop. Robbe was just as greedy. He liked having his hands on Sander at all times. Sander loved how needy Robbe was, how unreserved and affectionate. 

“Remember when you asked me about the multiverse theory?” Sander whispered.

They’d returned to Sander’s room. They were sharing the same pillow. 

Robbe nodded. “I remember.”

“I think…the idea doesn’t scare me as much anymore.”

“It scared you?”

Sander nodded. 

“Why?” said Robbe.

“Because…I already felt so—alone. And the idea of that loneliness, multiplied, infinitely…that scared me.”

Robbe pulled Sander so his head was on Robbe’s chest. He wrapped his arms around Sander’s shoulders, protectively. “You’re not alone.”

“Tell me what Robbe and Sander are doing in the other universes,” Sander whispered.

Robbe told him. In some Sander had actually managed to paint Robbe. In some they’d chosen watercolors, in others charcoal. In some Robbe’s drawing had actually turned out half-decent (this made Sander snort). In some universes Sander had cooked Robbe dinner instead of ordering takeout. In some Robbe had cooked dinner for Sander, and it had gone very well, _I’ll have you know_ (this also made Sander laugh). 

Sander fell asleep halfway through Robbe’s storytelling, lulled by Robbe’s soft voice, his fingers in Sander’s hair. He’d already heard all he’d needed to hear: that in every single one of those universes, whether here or faraway, Earth or Mars, Robbe would manage to find him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi lovelies! i want to start by saying, as always, thanks to each and every one of you who have commented/rambled in the reblog tags/shared the fic on tumblr/sent me a sweet message/etc. i feel like a broken record at this point but i just....truly cant emphasize enough how much it means to me. angels, all of you!
> 
> second i should say thanks for reading this chapter in particular...without revealing too much a lot of what sander goes through especially wrt his relationship to sex/intimacy is super super personal to me. sex can be so beautiful and can be such a powerful healthy thing to share with somebody, but learning how to be good to yourself and listen to your own needs takes practice and patience. writing this chapter and working on sander's characterization in this fic in general has been really important to me and healing and just...yeah, thanks for reading. 
> 
> you can always come say hi [on tumblr @aholynight](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/)  
> have a beautiful day x


	5. Chapter Five

Robbe didn’t think there were another pair of hands as ferociously beautiful as Sander’s. They were masterful on the fretboard of his guitar, spider-quick and arrogant in their competent dexterity, a second-nature savoir-faire that was all the more thrilling because Sander seemed entirely indifferent to how good he was.Robbe was transfixed by the flutter of tendons in Sander’s paint-streaked clever capable hands, the twist of veins in his forearms, the hollows of his wrist-bones, even his bitten-down nails. It seemed unfair to Robbe that Sander should be so casually good at this too, like he was at everything else. Sander didn’t even care about being a musician: he just did this for fun. 

The rest of him was just as damnably gorgeous to watch on stage. His hips were knife-blades. His torso was slinky and slippery with sweat, the colors of his tattoos luminous under the oscillating strobe lights. Never had Sander been more angular, more rangy, the sinews of his body taut and tormented and alive with fierce energy. He was worryingly skinny, but Robbe knew firsthand how deceptively strong Sander was. He could lift Robbe up or flip him over or manhandle him into whatever position he liked without blinking an eye.

Robbe shivered. This venue is bigger than their ordinary house-party gigs: the art department booked an entire bar, a big one, and it was full to the brim. It was hot. And yet he shivered. 

Sander’s eyes were on him. 

There was nothing quite like being in a room full of people, and meeting your lover’s eyes across the room. The deliciousness of your secret, private intimacy, ricocheting without notice between all those other living bodies. And there were many bodies between them. Sander had never played before a crowd this huge. 

But he was born to play on a stage like this. Sander was his own electromagnetic field. Onstage he sulked and stomped and terrorized. He could be cool and aristocratic as a vampire one second, and then swing without warning into overdrive, wild and unhinged. He looked like a burnout junkyard hero, a libertine, a king. A degenerate poet, a decadent dirtbag, a beautiful nihilistic ringmaster. Every flick of his eyebrow captivated. Every quirk of his mouth. Every time he tipped his head back to sing, exposing the glorious undulation of his golden throat, every jerk of his hips spoke directly to each and every cell in Robbe’s body. Sander had him in a voodoo-chokehold. He was under a spell. No one escaped his seduction. Not one eye wandered. Robbe looked around: the room was a sweating gawking mass of punchdrunk fools, a hundred fish caught on Sander’s indifferent hook.

The thing about Sander was that this was no facade, no mask, no performance: this, too, was Sander. He was the soft tender-hearted boy Robbe discovered in the sheets every morning—each day an archaeological wonder, a new unearthing, a revelation— _and_ the charismatic force-of-nature who could bring an entire room to its knees with a careless snap of his fingers. It was all Sander. He was a jewel with a million edges, each one more stunning than the next. Robbe couldn’t help but feel a little jealous, a little possessive of Sander, with all those strange eyes on him. 

But he was proud, too. Because he was Robbe’s. That was the most exhilarating thing of all. When Robbe’s gaze met Sander’s over that writhing crowd, they might as well have been alone in a quiet room. 

A hand grabbed Robbe’s elbow. He turned. It was Jens and Moyo, who offered Robbe a beer.

“He looks good up there,” said Jens, having to shout a little over the noise, “your guy.”

Robbe smiled around the lip of his beer bottle. _His guy._

“Down for any fire-breathing later?” said Moyo, clapping Robbe on the shoulder. “It would make a good vlog.”

Robbe almost burst out laughing. _Fire-breathing._ He’d nearly forgotten about his old party-trick. All the things he used to need to do to escape the noise of his own brain. Fire-breathing, drinking to oblivion, numbing his mind in a narcotic haze: they were a million different ways to walk along an edge and dare it to drag him down. Robbe had tried them all.

But he wasn’t interested in any of that anymore. He didn’t need drugs or danger to feel high anymore. He had Sander. 

“Nah, I’m good,” said Robbe, his eyes on Sander again. Sander winked at him across the room as he played the final notes of his song and murmured a whiskey-voiced _thank you_ into the mic. The set was over. 

They downed their beers quickly and went to the bar for another. A DJ was playing now: something bass-heavy, a sexy, pulsing electric throb. Robbe was just ordering two gin and tonics—Sander would want one once he finished—when he felt a pair of arms slide around his waist.

“Hi, baby.” Sander’s voice was low and smoky in Robbe’s ear. His hips pressed into Robbe from behind. 

He kissed Robbe’s neck. Robbe’s breath hitched. 

“Hi,” he said, belatedly, breathlessly. He turned in Sander’s arms. Immediately, Sander’s lips were on his. He was still soaked with sweat from his set, but Robbe didn’t care. He accepted the filthy, spine-tingling kiss Sander gave him greedily, his fingers in Sander’s damp, gloriously messy hair. His roots were coming in dark, but Robbe liked it: it made him look even more rakish and disreputable than usual. 

“You were really good,” Robbe whispered into the corner of Sander’s mouth. He felt Sander grin. 

“Oh yeah? How good?”

Robbe swallowed, hard. This was a dangerous sort of conversation to have while they were still in public. But then again, that’s likely exactly why Sander had asked him like this. He liked the element of danger, of transgression, and Robbe would be lying if he said he didn’t like it too. Sander seemed to exist in a different temporal field than everyone else: his mind was already a few steps ahead. He was the kind of person who never needed to study for tests: he just already knew the answers. He entered every room as though he already owned it. He knew everything Robbe was going to do and say seconds before he did it. Every conversation was a game of cat and mouse. When Sander was on, he was _on._ He was invincible. It was intoxicating. 

“Come with me to the bathroom and maybe you’ll find out,” Robbe murmured. 

Sander’s fingers tightened on Robbe’s hips, a dangerous, warning sort of squeeze. Robbe suppressed a grin. That meant Robbe was getting to him.

“I didn’t think you were that kind of boy,” said Sander, in a tone of mock-disapproval. So _that_ was how Sander wanted to play it tonight. Sander, Robbe was learning, was a man of many eccentric proclivities. When it came to sex, he was unpredictable, mercurial, fond of role-playing, experimentation. Robbe was a most willing test-subject.

“I’m whatever kind of boy you want me to be,” whispered Robbe. 

A muscle leapt in Sander’s jaw. Robbe kissed him on the cheek: an innocent, feather-light kiss. 

“You’re _trouble_ is what you are,” said Sander, one hand on Robbe’s hip, the other gripping the back of his neck, tight enough to almost hurt. He put his mouth next to Robbe’s ear. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want what you want,” said Robbe. It was true. Robbe was in the mood for reverence. He was not religious in the slightest, but tonight Sander had been divine, and he deserved a bit or worshipping.

“Well, right now I’m _starving,_ ” said Sander, his fingers crawling up the back of Robbe’s t-shirt.

“Oh, you’re _starving,_ huh?”

“I’m in the mood for something tasty,” said Sander, dragging his thumb across Robbe’s bottom lip with proprietary brazenness. “What about you?”

“Always.”

“Good,” said Sander, taking a step back and patting Robbe on the cheek with a wicked, teasing grin. “Because Senne and Zoe wanna go for diner food.”

Robbe gaped at him. Sander could be such a sadist.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Sander, barely suppressing a very cheeky grin. “What were you thinking?”

Robbe blinked innocently at him. Fine. If Sander wanted to play, then Robbe could play too.

“I was thinking of blowing you in the bathroom, but…” Robbe took a step past Sander and shrugged, indifferently. “Later, I guess.”

Sander caught Robbe around the waist. They play-fought—Robbe won, naturally, jumping onto Sander’s back—until they found Senne and Zoe waiting with a car outside. 

The bar was one of Senne and Sander’s favorites: one far enough from school that they were unlikely to run into anyone they knew, where the bartenders all knew and loved them and teased Sander and Senne in a way that delighted Zoe and Robbe to no end. Robbe liked seeing Senne and Zoe together: Zoe teased Senne constantly, and Senne adored her openly, without any reservations, and Robbe caught her looking at him soft-eyed at least half a dozen times. He liked seeing a couple who so clearly loved each other and weren’t afraid to be affectionate, who had the kind of shorthand, casual intimacy that only came with months and months and months of being together.

Robbe was tipsy enough to sit in Sander’s lap. Sander hugged him around the waist, his chin on Robbe’s shoulder. Sander smelled like sweat and pine-and-cedar shampoo, pencil shavings and expensive cologne, smoke and spearmint gum. Sander hand-fed him fries and regaled the table with jokes about all the stupid shit he and Senne used to get up to when they were kids, and Senne did an impression of teenage Sander that made Robbe and Zoe laugh so hard they nearly cried. 

But as much fun as they were having, Robbe could not wait to get Sander home. The longer they spent in the diner, the more keyed-up Robbe felt. Sitting in Sander’s lap certainly wasn’t helping. Sander after a show was one of Robbe’s favorite Sanders: he was playful, cocky, maddeningly stubborn. Robbe would’ve thought that after performing, Sander would want a quick release after all that pent-up intensity onstage. But instead Sander was like a newly-charged battery: he was more Sander than ever. Tenacious, wicked, relentless. Having sex with Sander after he performed required a certain amount of mental dexterity: Robbe never knew where Sander was going to take it. Sander’s appetite for him, his capacity to push Robbe’s boundaries, to open to the limits of what sex could be—it was seemingly endless. Robbe just had to be ready. Tonight, Sander kept whispering in Robbe’s ear at opportune moments, whenever Senne and Zoe were too absorbed in each other to notice. He whispered all of his plans for Robbe, all of the things he was going to do to him when they finally arrived home. 

“Sander…” Robbe whined. His head was beginning to spin. He’d stopped drinking a while ago, but he’d suffered a long night of being teased, and he needed relief. 

“It’s okay, baby,” said Sander, kissing Robbe behind his ear. “Let’s go home.”

They got to their feet. Senne handed Zoe her coat. But just as they turned to leave, Senne froze.

Sander stiffened. Robbe had his arms around Sander’s waist, hugging him. He looked up at Sander, confused, and then at the pair of burly-looking guys that had just walked into the bar.

It was Senne who came forward first. Robbe couldn’t hear what Senne said to them, but his voice was low and fierce, and as soon as he was finished speaking the three of them went outside, leaving Sander, Zoe, and Robbe at the back of the bar. 

“Stay here,” said Sander, without looking at Robbe.

Before Robbe could protest, Sander was out the door. 

Robbe turned to Zoe, stunned. “What—what just happened?”

“Fucking hyper masculine _bullshit,_ that’s what happening,” Zoe muttered fiercely, gathering up the rest of her things. She started to leave.

“Zoe, wait—” Robbe chewed on his bottom lip. He had no idea what he was meant to do. Sander ordered him to stay, but Robbe didn’t think he could. He didn’t know who these guys were, though he felt certain they were same guys who gave Senne that black eye, the same ones who they’d been fighting for years now, and Robbe wouldn’t be able to live with himself if something happened to Sander while Robbe waited uselessly behind. 

In the end, he followed Zoe outside. 

Sander’s lunar-white hair was the first thing Robbe saw. The second was his pocket knife. It looked clean, as far as Robbe could discern. What was scarier was the look on Sander’s face. Robbe could only see him in profile, stark beneath the glaring street lamps. He was the same height as the guy he was squaring off against, nose to nose. Sander didn’t look angry. He looked cruelly indifferent, almost blank. Any icy surface. Daring the other guy to strike first.

Robbe had been in fights before, stupid ones with Jens and Moyo, usually against dumbasses at the skatepark: scuffles, nothing serious, little skirmishes that usually ended with everyone sharing a joint afterwards. 

This wasn’t like that. Robbe knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Sander would use that knife if he needed to.

Eventually the guys backed off. They didn’t have any weapons but their own fists. 

Senne and Sander waited until they were gone before they finally turned to face Robbe and Zoe, who were standing near the door. 

Sander blinked at Robbe, slowly, as if he didn’t really see him. Robbe approached him, slowly. He rubbed his hand down Sander’s back, and cradled his face with the other.

“Hey, hey,” said Robbe softly, “It’s okay. Let’s just go home, yeah?”

Sander nodded, tightly. His expression was grim. Senne ordered a car for the four of them. The ride back home was tense, silent. No one breathed a word. Robbe squeezed Sander’s hand, glancing at him worriedly, but Sander wouldn’t look at him. He just stared out the window stiffly, letting Robbe run his thumb over the back of his hand without returning the gesture.

Robbe took off his jacket when they entered Sander’s room. He felt almost nauseous with nerves. He’d never seen Sander this quiet before, this tense. Sander still wouldn’t even look at him.

He changed into one of Sander’s big t-shirts—Sander’s favorite look on him—hoping it might soften him, or at least ease the tension.

Robbe sat at the foot of the bed. Sander sat on the edge of his desk, still wearing the black jeans he’d performed in and the white t-shirt he’d changed into afterwards and of course his leather jacket. He hadn’t even taken off his combat boots.

Though Sander was in the same room as him, Robbe couldn’t help but feel like they were a hundred feet away. Robbe curled his knees to his chest, trying to think of the right words to say, but he didn’t know where to begin. If Sander was mad at him—and Robbe was certain now that he was, he was positive, he had to be—than Robbe didn’t know what he would do. He couldn’t stand the thought of Sander being upset with him. It made him feel sick.

Robbe was about to open his mouth when Sander finally broke the silence.

“I told you to stay.”

Robbe looked up. Sander was gripped the sides of the desk like he meant to break it. His jaw ticked. He still didn’t look at Robbe.

“I was just worried,” said Robbe quietly.

Sander nodded. He closed his eyes. Robbe watched him, unsure if he should go to him, maybe take Sander’s hand. At least now he knew what Sander was upset about.

“Are you mad at me?” Robbe whispered.

Sander visibly softened. He finally, _finally_ looked at Robbe. 

“No. No, baby, of course not, it’s just…” Sander’s throat bobbed. “I told you to stay inside.”

Robbe didn’t really know what to say. He hated this. He hated the idea of Sander being mad at him—and he was, Robbe knew he was, he’d been in enough passive-aggressive fights with his dad to know that when someone said they weren’t mad, they were, of course they were—but he also didn’t know what other choice he had. If their positions had been reversed, there’s no way in hell Sander would’ve listened to Robbe if he asked him to stay behind. Robbe would’ve known how useless it would be to ask in the first place.

“Sander,” said Robbe, fumbling for the right words. He’d never been good at arguing before. He wasn’t even sure this was an argument. But it was the closest thing they’d come to it, and that scared Robbe enough. “I couldn’t _not_ make sure you were okay. You get that, right? What if….what if it got out of hand? What if something happened to you?”

Without missing a beat, Sander said, “I don’t want you anywhere near guys like that.”

His voice was quiet, chilly. It brooked no argument.

“Sander…” said Robbe, getting up from the bed.

“Robbe,” said Sander. He stood up. He still wasn’t touching Robbe, and it was making him feel ill. He was looking at him with the same intensity as when he’d told Robbe about his bipolar disorder. “This is…look. I’m not gonna tell you what to do, okay? I don’t want—” Sander sighed heavily. “I don’t want us to be like that. But just…please. I don’t…I _can’t_ have you around that. I don’t ever want you to see me like that again.”

Robbe didn’t know what to say. “Sander, I—”

“Robbe,” said Sander. “Please. Please just promise me.”

“Okay,” said Robbe, nodding, barely sure what he was even agreeing to. “Okay—”

It was like a string was cut. He could _see_ the relief flooding through Sander’s body. 

Robbe kissed him, unable to hold back any longer. Sander returned it slowly, dazedly, as if he were still emerging from whatever fog had gripped him before.

But then Sander got his bearings. This hadn’t been a fight, but it was the closest they’d ever come, and Robbe hadn’t liked it, not one bit. The idea of Sander being angry with him was intolerable, and he needed to be reminded that Sander wasn’t upset, that he still loved him, still wanted him.

Sander was learning Robbe’s body: which parts of him most liked to be touched, kissed, bitten. The sounds he produced when his hair was pulled the right way, how to reach the parts inside him in ways that made Robbe’s vision white-out. 

But Robbe was learning Sander, too. Learning things Sander himself most likely didn’t even know. When Sander felt out of control, he needed something to feel in control again. 

They’d never fucked like this before. Against the wall, both of them shaking, feverish, overwhelmed and riding an edge they’d never reached before. It felt like they were breaking something, together. It was rough. It hurt and soothed in all the right ways. It was terrifying and turbulent and so exquisitely good that Robbe didn’t know if he’d survive it. Sander’s voice was hot in his ear, telling Robbe how good he was, and it made Robbe lose his _mind._

Sander was better, afterwards. Still edgy, but calmer. Robbe held him tight, and Sander buried his face in the crook of Robbe’s neck, like he wanted to disappear into Robbe’s skin. This, Robbe had learned, was Sander’s favorite way to sleep, especially after sex. Especially after sex like _that._

Robbe kissed his hair, relieved, sated, still coming down. 

Once Sander had settled, his breathing finally evening out, he whispered, “I’m sorry.”

Robbe looked down at him, surprised. Sander almost never actually said _sorry._ He apologized nonverbally, with kisses and gifts and elaborate dates. For Robbe, saying sorry was almost second-nature. It was as easy for him as breathing—perhaps it was too easy. It was much harder for Sander to say it. But he was trying.

“It’s okay,” Robbe whispered. 

“It isn’t,” said Sander. “I…I just hate those guys so much, and if something happened to you, to Senne, I don’t know what I’d do, I can’t—”

“Why do they keep going after Senne?”

Sander’s eyelashes fluttered as he sighed, tickling Robbe’s neck. “He…a while back, when we were younger, one of their friends sexually assaulted Senne’s girlfriend at the time….it fucked up her entire life. When Senne found out he went totally insane. He became obsessed with getting justice. They broke up, ultimately. They couldn’t ever really get over what happened, the trauma of it all. But Senne did help her go to the police and report the assault. They had enough evidence to put the guy in jail.”

“And now his friends keep going after Senne,” Robbe finished. 

Sander nodded. “It’s fucked. He did the right thing but those guys keep trying to punish him for it.”

“Have you ever gone to the police?”

“Once,” Sander admitted. “When one of the guys pulled a knife. I was the one who—who—”

Robbe remembered what Senne had said that evening, when they’d surprised Sander by finally decorating his bedroom. That Sander had nearly killed the guy the last time he was involved.

Robbe hushed him gently, peppering kisses all over Sander’s cheek, petting his hair. “Baby, it’s okay—it’s fine. It’s over.”

Sander burrowed even closer and nodded, as if trying to convince himself. Robbe held him close. Though he knew Sander would never ask it of him, Robbe was certain now more than ever that he would do whatever it took to make Sander feel safe.

—

The next few weeks were a blur of late-night studying, take-out boxes and frozen pizza, Sander picking him up from morning lectures with coffee and croissants, all-nighters in the library. It was mid-term season, and Robbe was determined to do well. He’d always been a decent enough student, but he wasn’t like Sander: he couldn’t just show up and be brilliant on-demand. He’d been forced to develop a disciplined work ethic. And despite how many times he’d explained this to Sander—and how supportive Sander was, constantly showering him with reassuring compliments about what a genius he was and giving him back-rubs and forehead kisses and extra cups of coffee when Robbe needed them—Sander still did not fundamentally understand that studying had to be a full-time gig for Robbe.

“You need a break,” Sander insisted, for the twelfth time that evening. “Robbe, this isn’t healthy.”

“ _Health_ has nothing to do with it,” said Robbe, finishing the last dregs of his coffee. He was kneeling in front of the coffee table, his notes and textbooks and index cards spread out in front of him like a madman. Sander was sitting on the couch behind him, writing an essay for his art history class on his laptop. His casual attitude towards exams was starting to get under Robbe’s skin. 

“Wrong,” said Sander, throwing a piece of popcorn at Robbe’s head.

“I’m not wrong,” Robbe protested, throwing it back. “Sander, I _have_ to study, I still don’t know anything about the reproductive system and the TA said it’s gonna be a huge part of the test—”

Sander picked him up off the floor—Robbe was so surprised that he had no time to fight back—and tossed him onto the couch. 

“I think you know _plenty_ about the reproductive system,” Sander teased, climbing on top of Robbe. 

“Sander,” Robbe whined, but Sander was already wearing that devilish grin, and Robbe knew it would be near impossible to dissuade him from whatever bad idea he’d cooked up. 

Robbe spread his knees unconsciously. Sander crawled on top of him, pinning Robbe’s wrists loosely against the arm rest.

“No arguing,” said Sander, mock-sternly. “It’s break time.”

“ _But_ —”

“Robbe, you literally have not moved from this spot for the last twelve hours. You know your shit.Reading your notes for the fiftieth time isn’t gonna do anything but fuck with your sleep. Trust yourself. Trust _me._ You’ve got this.”

Robbe swallowed hard. There was, he could admit, a kernel of truth to what Sander was arguing. He was one of the best students in the class, behind Yasmina. But he could never shake the feeling that he still wasn’t good enough.

“But what if it’s not enough?” said Robbe.

Sander fixed him with a soft, exasperated look. “Robbe….come on.”

“Sander, I’m not like you, okay! I can’t just show up to things and be magically good at them.”

“I don’t just show up to things,” said Sander, letting go of Robbe. He sat back, clearly trying not to look and sound hurt, and failing. “I put in my hours, too.”

Robbe sat up, reaching for Sander, feeling guilty. “I know. I know that. I’m just saying…you’re like, crazy talented. It’s amazing. It’s kind of ridiculous, actually. And not to mention really really fucking hot—”

Sander lifted an eyebrow, his expression already shifting back to amusement. 

“But I…” Robbe shrugged his shoulders, helplessly. “I’ve never been like that. It’s just…different for me.”

“You’re ridiculous,” said Sander, shaking his head.

“What?” said Robbe, genuinely confused.

“Robbe, I’ve seen you do skating tricks so insane that literally everyone else in the park stops to watch you. I’ve heard Yasmin tease you about your grades—”

“But I have to _study—”_

“So? Working hard is way more impressive. What’s so special about being a naturally good test-taker? When college is over, when is that skill ever gonna come in handy again?”

Robbe had never thought of it like that. He’d always been jealous of his friends who seemed to have a natural aptitude to do well without much work. He never thought his work ethic had much practice utility outside of necessity.

“You’re gonna be the best, smartest nurse in the whole world, Robbe Ijzermans,” cooed Sander, pinching Robbe’s cheeks. 

Robbe rolled his eyes, batting Sander’s hands away as his fingers tickled into his rib cage. 

“Shut up—”

“The _prettiest_ nurse—”

“ _Sander…_ ” Robbe whined. He’d almost regretted telling Sander about his plans to get a nursing degree. But it meant a lot to him. Growing up he’d spent so many hours at the hospital with his Mama, talking to nurses, watching them take care of her. What they did was so amazing, and important, and yet they only got half the credit that doctors did. 

“Help, nurse, I’m injured,” Sander said dramatically, falling backwards onto the opposite end of the couch. 

“Don’t say it—” Robbe warned, already climbing on top of him.

“On my _dick—”_

Robbe hit him with the throw pillow. Sander curled into a ball protectively, still laughing, as Robbe beat him into submission. Once he deemed Sander suitably reprimanded, Robbe settled on his lap, straddling Sander’s hips, admiring the gorgeous boy beneath him. 

Sander was still grinning at him, pink-cheeked from laughing, his hair a riot on the coach cushion beneath him. Sander’s expression softened

“You’re legitimately an angel, you know that?” said Sander, looking at him so fondly, so reverently, that Robbe’s breath hitched. 

Robbe kissed him. Sander surged up to meet him, shifting them both upright. Robbe sank further into Sander’s lap. Sander was wearing only a thin pair of sweatpants, no shirt, and Robbe was in one of Sander’s t-shirts and his boxers. 

They climbed off the couch, still wrapped in each other’s arms. Sander picked Robbe up easily—there was that surprising strength again. He was strong the way somebody who’s had to look after themselves for a long time is strong. Strong the same way Robbe had learned to be. 

They made their way to Sander’s bedroom. Sander tossed him onto the bed, and Robbe parted his legs, making room for Sander between them. 

He wondered idly if he’d ever get used to having sex with Sander. It wasn’t like any other sex Robbe had ever had: quickies against closet doors and bathroom sinks at house parties, clinical sex in college dorm rooms without kissing and barely any foreplay, dirty blowjobs in locker rooms or bathroom stalls in clubs. 

But this wasn’t like that. Robbe let himself be languid with Sander in a way he never was with himself. He still couldn’t help but touch Sander like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. Like Sander was some pretty thing in an art museum that you could only admire from afar. 

Robbe was gentle with him. He liked being gentle with him, and Sander liked it too. He’d studied Sander’s body closely enough to gauge that it was gentle touches that wrecked Sander the most. He wanted to make Sander’s heart stutter and his dick jump and his stomach seize with pleasure the same way Sander did for him. He wanted to explore Sander’s body until he knew every corner, every turn in the long road of Sander’s body, every sensitive gear shift. Sander was beautiful. He wanted to worship every inch of him. Robbe was a giver by nature. He was generous with his love.

But Sander? Sander was a torturer. He loved to tease and drag things out. He put his mouth in strange places, just to see if Robbe might produce any new sounds. Sander was uninhibited, completely shameless about sex, wild and free and inventive. In bed he was just as fearless and strange and creative as he was in his studio. He made clever use of his mouth and his fingers. Everything seemed possible with Sander. There were so many permutations of kisses and touches and nerve endings which could produce an orgasm, and Sander seemed intent on discovering all of them. He approached sex as seriously as he approached his art, always expanding, always perfecting. Sander knew if he pulled Robbe’s hair at the nape of his neck, he would whine. If he put his mouth on Robbe’s throat, he would whimper. 

Robbe did not have to think. He’d always had to be so responsible, but not here. Sander took over, and all Robbe had to do was yield to him. He liked being arranged the way Sander wanted him, he even liked being told what to do. He liked being praised and told he was doing a good job. He liked getting to leave the noise of his own brain for a while.

Most times sex with Sander was playful. But sometimes it was simply intense: no words exchanged between them but the bass-deep rumble of Sander’s voice against the back of his neck, pet names incongruously sweet and adoring considering how much he made Robbe suffer, how he brought Robbe right to an edge without letting him release until finally, finally granting permission. 

Sander liked being trusted. Robbe liked putting his trust in him. He didn’t need to think about it. He gave himself over to Sander, and Sander always, always took care of him. 

And afterwards, they lied together, and Robbe took care of Sander. Sander put everything into sex. Everything. He treated it no differently than his art. Sander created a new masterpiece with every sexual encounter. It left them both raw, and vulnerable. Robbe cradled him in his arms, knowing how much Sander needed to be held. 

They were kissing each other softly afterwards. Robbe pressed his cheek against Sander’s downy-soft hair. Sander looked even more fragile than he usually did after sex. Robbe ran his thumb over his cheek, concerned.

“Are you okay?”

Sander nodded. He was hugging Robbe’s waist, his cheek on Robbe’s chest. He closed his eyes, playing idly with Robbe’s necklace.

“I’ve been, um…” Sander’s eyes lifted to Robbe’s hesitantly, before lowering again. “I’ve been feeling…not manic exactly but just kind of…a lot, recently. My medication helps me, though.”

“You don’t get manic?”

Sander shakes his head. “My moods aren’t completely stable but…I don’t get episodes the way I used to. I wouldn’t be with you if I did.”

Robbe’s heart stuttered. “What do you mean?”

He heard Sander exhale, shakily. “I wouldn’t do that to you,” he whispered.

“What are you talking about?”

“I wouldn’t put you through that,” said Sander, tilting his head up so he could look at Robbe.

“ _Put me through?_ ” Robbe repeated, in disbelief. “Is that—is that how you think of it?”

Sander’s brow knit, as if he couldn’t understand what was wrong with what he’d said.

“Sander, it’s not like that,” said Robbe. “It’s not like I’m only with you because you’re on your meds.”

Sander looked at him skittishly again, leaning up on his elbow to cup Robbe’s face. 

“Hey, it’s okay,” said Sander. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

Robbe opened his mouth to argue, but Sander was sitting up now, a look on his face like he’d just cooked up a new plan. 

“I’m starving. Aren’t you starving?”

Robbe considered the question seriously. It was past nine now, and he’d been up since dawn studying, mostly subsisting on junk food and coffee. 

“Come on, let’s get dinner,” said Sander. “What do you want?”

“I want to stay in,” said Robbe.

“Good, me too,” said Sander, reaching over Robbe for his phone. With his head on Robbe’s chest, they scrolled through different takeout menus, arguing over the various merits of sushi, Thai food, or Mediterranean until they finally agreed on Thai.

They showered and dressed while they waited for their food to arrive. They put on a movie—Robbe convinced Sander to at least let him look over his notes one more time—and ate directly from the takeout boxes.

Robbe couldn’t remember when he fell asleep—the last he recalled, he had his head in Sander’s lap on the couch, the blue glow of the television the only light in the room—but he woke up in Sander’s bed. 

Sander was already awake and dressed with a cup of coffee waiting for Robbe in the kitchen. He drove them to campus and left Robbe in front of his exam hall with a kiss to his cheek and a promise to meet him after the test was over.

But Sander wasn’t there. And there were no texts from him either. 

“Something wrong?” said Yasmina, peering over Robbe’s shoulder as they exited the lecture hall.

Robbe shook his head with a weak, unconvincing smile, pocketing his phone.

“Good,” said Yasmina, hooking her elbow in his. “Because I need _coffee._ And I need to know what you put for number four.”

Robbe went for coffee with Yasmina, discussing the exam and trying not to look at his phone. The fifth time she noticed his hand wandering towards her pocket, Yasmina rolled her eyes.

“Robbe, it’s _fine_ if you need to text your boyfriend, I’m not gonna be offended or think you’re being rude.”

Robbe pulled out his phone. His only new message was from Jens, who invited Robbe to a party that night with the boys. 

Once Yasmina felt they had debriefed the exam to her satisfaction, Robbe decided he might as well check the art building. Sander had been spending most of midterm season here: he didn’t have exams so much as workshop showcases, and he’d been spending almost twelve hours a day in the studio, painting. 

He checked Sander’s studio. Sander wasn’t there. Robbe couldn’t resist admiring all of his art work. He knew very little about art, but he could identify talent when he saw it. Sander’s art was breathtaking—though Robbe couldn’t help but feel slightly self-conscious about the half-finished portrait of his own face in the center easel. 

Robbe checked the main gallery downstairs next. An older man with shoulder-length graying hair appeared at Robbe’s elbow as he admired one of Sander’s paintings: the red planet with the lonely silhouette which Robbe had seen once before, on the art department website. 

The man introduced himself as one of the instructors in the visual arts department. Robbe shook his head.

“Just stopping by to admire the work?” said the instructor.

“Oh, no, well—yes, it’s, um—it’s beautiful,” Robbe stammered. “I’m—do you know Sander Driesen?”

“Of course,” said the man with a knowing smile.

“I’m his boyfriend,” said Robbe, feeling a bit shy. 

“I know—I was teasing you,” said the instructor. He had very pale, intent blue eyes that were difficult to look at head-on, and his long hair made him look like an aging hippie. “I’ve seen you before.”

“You have?” 

“Of course,” he said, as if it were obvious. “In Sander’s drawings. I’m his advisor. He’s an extraordinary talent, isn’t he?”

Robbe nodded, his cheeks heating. Some of Sander’s drawings of him weren’t exactly _chaste_. Since their first night together, Sander had managed to persuade Robbe to let him draw him for real, without any clothing. Robbe still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d agreed, though Sander was _extremely_ persuasive. He was certain Sander wouldn’t have shown his professor those particular drawings—Robbe had made him promise not to—but there was still something so intimate about all of their drawings, clothing or not.

He managed to leave after a few more minutes of awkward conversation. Sander still hadn’t called or texted him. Robbe sent him a quick text asking what he was up to, followed immediately by a heart emoji, and pocketed his phone. 

He ran into Jens and the others outside his dormitory, which he hardly ever slept in these days. He went with them to the skatepark, hoping it would at least distract him from worrying about Sander. It was probably nothing: it was mid-terms for Sander too, after all. He was probably just stuck in exams, or the library, too busy to text. 

By sunset they started drinking. Moyo passed a joint around. Robbe checked his phone again: he’d left Sander several more unread texts and a voicemail, but there was still no word from him.

“So what’s Sander up to tonight?” asked Jens, passing Robbe another beer bottle.

“Uh…” Robbe didn't want to sound worried. “Not sure. I haven’t heard from him today.”

“Really?” said Moyo, surprised. “Aren’t you two basically inseparable?”

Robbe scoffed at this, though it wasn’t untrue. “It’s not like I can take his exams with him.”

“Isn’t he like the lord and savior of the art department?” joked Jens. “I bet if he asked, they’d let him have you there.”

Robbe rolled his eyes. Anxiety pinched his stomach. He drank his beer fast, hoping it might dull his nerves.

It didn’t work. Robbe regretted going to the party the second they walked in. He hung out with Jana and Amber for a while, but he kept getting distracted, expecting to see a glimpse of bleach-blonde hair from faraway, or Sander’s arms folding around him from behind, a low whisper in his ear, _surprise._ He could absolutely see Sander doing that—keeping him on edge all day, only to plan some elaborate getaway, whisking him away to some beach house or ski cabin or expensive hotel suite.

“Hey, where’s Zoe?” Robbe asked, his eyes traveling the room for the hundredth time.

“Not sure,” said Amber. “Probably with Senne. I texted her a while ago but she didn’t reply.”

Robbe bit his lip, glancing around again. He checked his phone. No new messages, no missed calls. Nothing.

He smoked another joint with Jens and Moyo, but it had the opposite effect he desired. He was getting more paranoid by the second. This wasn’t like Sander: sure, he could be unpredictable, but not like this. Not if he knew it would worry Robbe. Not that if they’d made concrete plans to see each other. 

“You alright, man?” said Jens, nudging Robbe with his elbow.

“Yeah,” said Robbe. Though he couldn’t see his smile, he knew it was uneasy, unconvincing. “I think I’m gonna head out, though.”

“Back to Sander’s?” asked Jens.

Truthfully, Robbe didn’t know. It’s not like he had his own key. He figured he might as well stop by the penthouse, in the hope that Senne and Zoe were there and could tell him where Sander was. 

He called Sander again on his way to the penthouse, though again he didn’t answer. 

Robbe stood shivering in front of Senne’s building and rang the bell. 

Nothing.

He rang again. A third time.

On the fourth try, to Robbe’s surprise, he heard the buzzer. He nearly tripped over himself in his desperation to catch the door before it locked again. He rode the elevator up, his stomach twisting with nerves and relief. At least one of them were in the apartment.

Except when the elevator doors opened, the face that greeted Robbe wasn’t Sander or Senne. It was Zoe.

She was hastily grabbing things around the penthouse: keys, purse, phone charger. She was wearing sweatpants and what looked like Senne’s jacket, and it was inside-out. The laces on one of her boots were undone, and her eyes were bloodshot, her cheeks flushed red, as though she’d been crying.

“Zoe,” said Robbe, “What’s going on—?”

Zoe looked at him, unseeing, as if she wasn’t sure who Robbe was, before quickly getting her bearings and pulling him into a hug. Robbe rubbed her back, feeing more confused than ever. Slowly, he pulled her away.

“Thank god you came, I was about to call you—”

Robbe’s blood ran cold.

“—but I didn’t know where you were and I just got home when I got the call—”

“Zoe,” said Robbe, sobering immediately. He took her by the shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Senne,” she said, choked. “He—he got hurt. He’s in the hospital. Robbe…” her voice quivered, “Robbe, it’s _bad—”_

Everything in Robbe’s body swayed, dangerously. His heart was in his throat.

“Zoe,” said Robbe, as calmly as he could. “Where’s Sander?”

Fresh tears welled in Zoe’s eyes.

Robbe felt faint. 

“He’s…he’s okay,” said Zoe. “He’s—”

“Is he hurt? He’s at the hospital, too?” said Robbe. His thoughts tripped over every possibility, too quickly for him to think straight. He couldn’t breathe.

“Not the hospital. Sander’s um—” She scrubbed her hands over her face. “Robbe, he’s…he’s at the police station. Sander intervened and he hurt the guy pretty bad. The cops are still trying to piece together the whole situation but they arrested Sander on the spot—”

Robbe was nodding, unthinking. He felt like a child again, the first few times he’d come home and found that his mother had left something in the oven for hours too long, or all the windows open during a thunderstorm. She was knocked out in her room, oblivious, surrounded by pill bottles. Robbe’s father was always gone. Whenever this happened something took over Robbe—something cold and patient, some foreign invader, puppeteering by pure necessity—and he would close the windows and take the burnt dinner from the oven and make he and his Mama something to eat. 

“We need to go,” said Robbe. He went to Sander’s room. A lump moved in his throat, seeing the half-finished drawing on the desk, his half-finished coffee cup on the night stand, a pair of his boxers on the ground, his cologne. He took his backpack and his jacket, steeling himself, and turned off the light.

Zoe went to the hospital. 

Robbe went to the police station. 

He ran up the steps to the station. He didn’t want time to think. In the cab ride over he’d made inane small talk with the driver, anything to push away the images crowding the edges of his mind: Sander in cuffs, Sander alone in a jail cell, Sander _hurt—_

But when he opened the doors to the station, he saw two men in button-ups and expensive-looking trousers at the front desk, filling out paper work. The station was florescently-lit and mostly barren: a fake potted plant, a small television in the ceiling corner broadcasting the news on low volume, two bored-looking officers sipping coffee. 

And sitting beside the officers, in a blood-stained shirt and a dirty leather jacket, was Sander. He looked up the minute Robbe walked in, immediately getting to his feet. 

“Sander,” Robbe breathed. 

Sander didn’t move. No one stopped Robbe from pulling Sander into his arms. Sander felt limp and heavy under Robbe’s hands. It took him a few seconds to hug back: his fingers curling tightly in the back of Robbe’s jacket. Robbe heard his breath hitch, shakily, into the crook of Robbe’s neck. He smelled like blood.

Robbe pulled away. Sander could barely look at him. Robbe ran his fingers tentatively over a cut on his eyebrow. He looked down at Sander’s hands. They were balled tight into fists, and his knuckles were completely shredded. Sander’s jaw clenched, his throat working. Robbe lifted Sander’s face, wanting to see Sander’s eyes. 

Sander obliged, glassy-eyed. A lump burned in Robbe’s throat.

“Sander Driesen?” called a voice from the front desk. 

Sander pulled away. The two men Robbe had seen at the front desk had him look over some paper work. After a few minutes, it became clear that they were Senne’s lawyers, sent to negotiate Sander’s release. 

Finally, Sander was allowed to leave. Robbe ordered them a car from his phone. They didn’t say a word to each other the entire ride home, nor on the elevator ride up to Senne’s penthouse. Sander leaned on Robbe weakly. He looked so _exhausted._

Robbe, knowing it was up to him to be strong for them both, brought Sander into the bathroom. He undressed them both—he wanted to get Sander as far away from his blood-stained clothes as possible—and ran the shower. Robbe inspected Sander’s body: there was a horrifying looking cut on his side, though upon closer look it was pretty shallow. Sander stood numbly under the hot spray until he finally stopped trembling, letting Robbe clean him. 

Robbe brought them both sweats to change into. He made Sander sit on the foot of the bed. He found first-aid supplies under the bathroom counter and knelt on the floor in front of him. Sander was unresponsive and detached as Robbe disinfected his wounds, suffering Robbe’s ministrations so meekly that it made Robbe’s heart clench. The only sound he made was a soft, pained hiss when Robbe cleaned the cut on his side. He was a perfect patient, letting Robbe bandage his side and forehead and his knuckles without a word of protest. He dutifully drank the glass of water Robbe gave him. 

It was only when Robbe turned off the light and led them both to bed that Sander let himself fall apart. His breath hitched dangerously, but he didn’t cry—Robbe didn’t think he would survive Sander’s tears—but he buried his face in Robbe’s neck, making himself small, and clung to him tightly until they both fell asleep.

A watery beam of sunlight woke Robbe the next morning. He rolled over, reaching for Sander. His eyes fluttered open.

He was alone. Panic gripped him almost instantly. Robbe checked his phone, but there were no messages or calls. He called out Sander’s name. 

Sander wasn’t in the kitchen. Robbe looked everywhere in the apartment, but Sander was nowhere to be found.

Robbe was in their room, halfway through leaving Sander a panicked voicemail when he heard the front door open.

He went to the hallway. Sander was holding two cups of coffee and a box of what smelled like donuts. His face broke into a huge grin when he saw Robbe. He dropped everything onto the kitchen counter and gathered Robbe into his arms.

Robbe gripped the back of Sander’s leather jacket, so relieved he couldn’t even speak. Finally, he pulled away, gently punching Sander’s arm.

“Ow,” Sander teased. “I’m injured, remember?”

Robbe narrowed his eyes. Sander looked like a completely different person, bright-eyed and refreshed. 

“You _scared_ me,” Robbe scolded. “I thought you’d left.”

Sander took Robbe’s face in his hands and kissed his forehead. “Never. I just thought you deserved a treat.”

Robbe took a tentative bite of one of the donuts. It was delicious. Sander grinned at him, looking in such high spirits that Robbe felt almost suspicious.

“You seem…much better,” said Robbe.

“Well, yeah,” said Sander, pinching Robbe’s cheek with a fond smile. “It’s all thanks to some pretty nurse. Maybe you know him. He took _very_ good care of me last night.”

Robbe raised an eyebrow. Sander’s good mood was so infectious he couldn’t help but grin back. But Robbe couldn’t help but feel a little prickle of anxiety too.

“So what happened?”

“Hmm?” said Sander, mid-chew.

“Yesterday,” said Robbe. “With Senne.”

“Oh, that,” said Sander dismissively. “It’s over.”

“Sander,” Robbe warned. Sander’s distractions weren’t going to work this time. Robbe wasn’t going to let him.

Sander turned to look at him. He leaned over to thumb some icing from the corner of Robbe’s lip, grinning. 

Robbe took Sander’s hand in his. His knuckles were still wrapped in gauze. He touched the bandage on Sander’s forehead, gently. Sander lowered his eyes, his sunny expression faltering.

“Talk to me,” said Robbe. 

Sander’s eyes lifted to Robbe’s, chastened, before falling again. He said nothing.

“I thought we were past this,” said Robbe. “Sander, you can _talk_ to me.”

Sander closed his eyes, resigned. He let Robbe guide him to the couch, their breakfast abandoned. He put his head on Robbe’s shoulder. 

Robbe listened, patiently, as Sander haltingly told the story. It was the same burly-looking guys that they had run into the other night at the bar. Yesterday they’d cornered Sander and Senne in the parking lot outside of school. The element of surprise had worked in their favor. So had the knife they pulled when Senne had least expected it. 

“I just…lost it,” Sander whispered. “It was like something broke in my brain. He caught me, just barely, with the blade but….I couldn’t even feel it. And before I knew it that guy was on his back and his face was just—just _ruined._ I couldn’t even remember doing it—”

“It’s okay,” Robbe whispered, petting the back of Sander’s head, “it’s _okay_ —”

When Sander had calmed down again, Robbe suggested they go visit Senne in the hospital. Sander looked terrified of the prospect—Robbe knew how much it would hurt Sander to see Senne like that—but he agreed.

The receptionist told them where to go. Senne was in bed. Zoe was laying next to him, her head on his shoulder. They both smiled brightly and sat up when Sander and Robbe came in. 

They spent the rest of the day with Senne and Zoe in the hospital. Senne’s injuries were mostly fairly shallow, but he’d lost enough blood that he’d been ordered on bed rest, and would likely be released the following morning. They ordered take-out together and ate straight from the carton, sprawled in chairs around Senne’s bed. 

Robbe kept glancing at Sander’s face. He seemed cheerful enough, teasing Senne and sharing his food with Robbe and squeezing his hand every so often. It wasn’t until they finally left the hospital that evening that Sander’s mask slipped, revealing how tired and miserable he felt.

“Can we go to yours tonight?” Sander asked. Sander did not have to say why: Senne’s absence could be felt all over the apartment, and even if he was likely returning home soon, it was painful being there knowing he was still at the hospital. 

“Of course,” said Robbe. The drive to campus was almost entirely silent. Sander didn’t even have the energy for a Bowie playlist.

“Are you okay?” asked Robbe, once they were in Robbe’s old dorm room.

Sander’s back was to him. He took his jacket off, his movements stiff, almost painful. 

Slowly, Sander shook his head.

Robbe hugged him from behind. Sander pulled Robbe’s arms around him even tighter. Eventually Sander turned in his hold, his mouth finding Robbe’s desperately, urgently, as if seeking something in Robbe’s touch, something he couldn’t even name. Robbe cradled Sander’s face and kissed him back, trying to communicate that he was here, that he wasn’t leaving, that he loved him. Sander undressed him frantically. Their sex was deep, wordless, an entire conversation in touch alone: they held each other like they would drown if they let go, feeling too raw and vulnerable to speak.

After their shower, Sander nestled against Robbe’s back. He kissed Robbe’s shoulders, curling around him protectively. Though it somewhat eased Robbe’s worries, he still felt unsettled. He couldn’t articulate why. He knew Sander was trying so hard to be open with him, to talk to him, to tell him how he was feeling, but he was unpracticed. They both were. He and Sander had spent so many years looking after themselves, seeking relief in dangerous coping mechanisms. It was hard to break those habits. 

His sleep was thin and fractured, tormented by bad dreams. He woke with a start around two in the morning, and turned to find the other side of the bed empty. 

Robbe sat up, rubbing the heel of his hand against his eye. 

He could make out Sander’s silhouette, stark against the moonlight. He was tying the laces of his combat boots.

“Sander?” said Robbe, the sheets pooling around his hips. “What are you doing?”

“Go back to sleep,” said Sander. His voice sounded strange. Unlike himself. Almost choked.

“You’re leaving,” said Robbe flatly. 

Sander’s head bowed. He stepped into the moonlight. There were bluish shadows under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept all night.

“Robbe…” Sander whispered, but Robbe was already on his feet. He felt silly and unequipped, dressed only in his boxers and one of Sander’s t-shirts, but he didn’t care. 

“You’re not leaving,” said Robbe, shaking his head. “You’re not leaving me.”

Sander’s hands clenched into fists at his side. Robbe’s face was inches from his, daring Sander to leave, to protest, to fight. 

“You’re not leaving me,” Robbe repeated fiercely. 

Sander closed his eyes. Robbe’s throat burned. He couldn’t believe him.

“Fuck you,” Robbe whispered.

“Please,” said Sander. 

“ _Fuck_ you—” Robbe was so angry he couldn’t even breathe.

“Robbe, please, _please,_ it’s so much better this way, _you’ll_ be so much better this way—”

Robbe scrubbed his hands over his face. He felt like he was going mad. He felt too exhausted for any conversation right now, but especially _this one._

“Why?” Robbe forced himself to sound calm, cold, even dispassionate.

“ _Why_?” Sander repeated back to him, as if the reasons why he would be leaving Robbe in the middle of the night were completely self-evident. 

“Yes,” said Robbe. “If you’re actually fucking leaving me in the middle of the night like the fucking asshole I thought you proved you weren’t, then you’re gonna sit here right now and explain why.” 

Sander at least had the decency to look ashamed of himself. He still couldn’t look Robbe in the eye.

“Go on, Sander,” said Robbe. “Tell me. Tell me why.”

Sander’s face twisted, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to cry or tear out his own hair. As if he was experiencing an emotion he’d never felt before, and he was puzzling through it in real time, live, without an instruction manual. 

“Robbe, I’m….” Sander ran his fingers through his hair. “I’m _fucked._ I’m fucked up. All I do is fuck things up. I don’t…I don’t know how to be any other way. I _can’t—”_

“Why?” Robbe intoned. “‘Cause you got in a fight? You think I’ve never been in a fucking fight? Sander, you’re… _stop—”_ Robbe threw his hands in the air. “Just stop! Stop punishing yourself—it’s fucked! It’s _insane_!”

Sander shook his head. He was sitting on the edge of Robbe’s desk, as if he couldn’t hold himself up any more. He looked so _small._

“You’re right. I’m _insane,_ ” Sander whispered, still shaking his head, “that’s what my bipolar does, it’s all I _am,_ Robbe—”

“No,” said Robbe. An ache punctured his chest, fracturing Robbe from the inside. “No…”

“You said it yourself,” Sander whispered.

“Sander, I didn’t mean—” Robbe’s eyes stung. He was getting it all wrong. Sander was falling apart before his eyes, and now, when it mattered most, Robbe was just making everything worse. “Look, Sander—you can’t—you can’t live in some hypothetical world where you _might_ fuck things up, or you _might_ do something that hurts me. I mean—how’s that going for you? Are you happy? Is it working? You can’t live like that. _I_ can’t live like that.”

Sander’s face was in his hands, still shaking his head. Robbe pulled Sander’s hands away—Sander ripped them away from Robbe’s grip, turning, retreating, but Robbe took him by the shoulders, almost shaking him. 

“Look, Sander—everybody’s fucked up,” said Robbe. “I mean, Jesus, _I’m_ fucked up. I fuck up all the time. But people need people. Okay?”

A tear snaked down Sander’s cheek. He still wouldn’t look at Robbe. 

“Sander…” said Robbe, softer, “What we have…it’s good. It’s actually good. You know it is. We’re _good_ for each other. You’re just _scared_.”

“ _Please_ …” Sander whispered, fighting weakly, but Robbe gripped his shoulders, forcing Sander to stay.

“I’m so fucking tired of being scared,” said Robbe. “Aren’t you?”

Sander’s face twisted again, and then fell. He was breathing too hard. He was shaking so violently that Robbe was scared of what would happen if he let him go. He hugged Sander to his chest. To his surprise, Sander didn’t struggle—he collapsed against him, his fingers curling in the back of Robbe’s t-shirt. 

“I just don’t ever want to hurt you,” Sander’s voice was muffled in Robbe’s shoulder. “I—I ruin _everything,_ everything good, and you’re—you’re—”

Robbe closed his eyes. He ran his hand over the back of Sander’s hair. Wounds were funny like that. They were like planets: making their slow rotations, retreating into darkness. But it was a trick. They were never really gone. Eventually their orbit reached the light again. Robbe was a fool to think that a few months of gentle touches could heal a lifetime’s worth of hurt. Sander had only ever known one path. 

But without either of them realizing, Robbe and Sander had carved a new road. They had beaten down brambles and thickets all on their own. This dirt was theirs. It is hard to recognize a new thing. Our senses are not designed for it. They kept expecting the same bends in the road to appear, the same potholes to upend them, the same crossroad devils. 

“I love you,” said Robbe.

Sander shuddered in his arms, as if unwilling to hear a single kind word.

“You’ll leave me,” Sander whispered. 

“I won’t,” said Robbe. 

“You will,” said Sander. “Everybody—”

“I’m not gonna leave you,” said Robbe evenly.

“You say that now,” said Sander. “But you can’t put up with me forever—”

Robbe went to his knees. 

“Look at me,” he said softly.

Sander’s eyes screwed shut. His eyelashes were dark, spiky against his cheeks, which glistened in the moonlight. Even now, even like this, Sander took Robbe’s breath away. 

“Sander, look at me—”

“Please, _don’t_ —” Sander whispered.

“I love you,” said Robbe. 

Finally, Sander’s eyes met his. Haunting pastel-green, red-rimmed and almost too raw for Robbe to bear. 

“I’m not leaving,” said Robbe. He took Sander’s hands in his. “You can push me and push me and play the martyr all you want, but just know—when you punish yourself, you punish me, too. You don’t get to make decisions like that for both of us. Okay? That’s not how this works now. You’re my fucking person, Sander. And I’m yours. Whether you like it or not, I’m yours.”

Sander’s hands clenched into fists, as if he meant to pull away, but Robbe wouldn’t let him. He put his lips to the back of Sander’s hand, feather-light. The gentlest of kisses.

“So please,” said Robbe. “Please don’t push me away.”

Sander made a rough sound in his throat, and hauled Robbe to his feet. Robbe cradled Sander’s face in his hands and kissed him. Sander kissed back, giving everything he had, but he’d left almost nothing for himself. He broke the kiss, like an engine cut. He was falling apart.

He cried into Robbe’s neck, making himself small, his shoulders wracking with sobs. It broke Robbe’s heart. Robbe felt a tear slip down his own cheek as he held Sander close, rocking him and hushing him, whispering whatever he could think of to knit Sander back together. 

“Remember?” Robbe whispering, carding his fingers through Sander’s hair, lifting his beautiful face to be kissed. “I told you, Sander. It’s us. Me and you. In every universe.”

It was late. The sky was approaching the sapphire-blue hour before sunrise as they curled together in bed, anchoring each other. Sander was finally drifting back to sleep. 

Robbe studied Sander’s sleeping face, caressing each delicate curve with his finger. Sander was such a soft thing in sleep. Robbe kissed his cheek. He wished he could will Sander’s brain into good dreams. Dreams where no one left him, dreams where no one used him, dreams where no one considered him broken or dangerous or fucked-up beyond repair. But he couldn’t. That was Sander’s fight. All Robbe could do was be a safety-net, an anchor, when the work of climbing up those steps became too much for Sander to bear. 

But he believed Sander would get there eventually. He’d survived this long. Sander had hand-crafted a masterpiece from nothing. Though some parts were more fragile than he let on, Sander was an artist, after all. He was patient and brave and so much stronger than he knew. He could paint over the cracks in his scaffolding. Sander could take any wreckage and turn it into something beautiful.

And with Robbe’s help, maybe one day Sander would see that what he thought of as broken was never broken at all. He was a many-edged jewel after all, an expansive, labyrinthian marvel of a boy. He’d just needed someone to be patient with him. To wait for him to reveal his many faces, and not just the one he wore as armor. 

Robbe would always have his scars. So would Sander. They would still bleed some times. They would pick up weapons they longer needed. Psychic wounds tangled the wires in our brain: synapses firing at the wrong targets, misrecognizing even good things as old injuries. Sander and Robbe had been at war with their own minds for so long that it was hard to recognize simple things—love, affection—all the stuff that didn’t hurt. The miserable warfare of old trauma kept them fighting for so long that they no longer knew when to put down their weapons. If they did, they might look around the battle field and discover no one else was fighting anymore. 

Tonight felt like an olive-branch. A white flag. Gathering Sander to his chest, Robbe promised himself that they would learn how to unlearn. To rewire themselves. Neither of them were finished creations: they were made of moving parts. They could be just as easily unmade, and reconstructed, with slow, careful, patient work.

—

“How is it?” said Robbe anxiously, studying Sander’s face carefully as he chewed.

Sander wore an expression of exaggerated concentration. Between them on the table was an impressive breakfast display: coffee and orange juice and croissants and fresh fruit. The centerpiece, courtesy of Robbe, was an omelette. Nothing too fancy, but Robbe was not exactly known for his culinary skills. Making dinner for Sander usually meant frozen pizza, or spaghetti sauce from a jar, or, if he was feeling nostalgic, homemade croques: though they never tasted quite as good as Sander’s did. Sander cooked elaborate meals for him all the time—cooking was just another one of his many irritatingly effortless talents—but today, Robbe wanted to return the favor. Sander had been helping him all week get his Mama’s apartment ready for her return, and Robbe wanted to say thank you. 

It had been nearly two months since the night Sander tried to runaway, liked he’d tried to runaway so many other times, and Robbe refused to let him. Nearly two months since Robbe convinced Sander, with incontrovertible proof, that he was in this for the long haul. Nearly two months since Robbe and Sander promised themselves that they would try, for each other’s sake, but mostly for their own, to be good to themselves. To start treating themselves as gently and carefully as they treated each other.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Robbe complained, tearing off a piece of croissant and chucking it at Sander’s head. Sander was still making a series of obnoxious thoughtful sounds, as if he hadn’t made up his mind about how Robbe’s breakfast tasted.

Sander dodged the croissant with a laugh and yanked Robbe forward by the collar of his shirt to give him a kiss. “It’s _delicious,_ baby,” he murmured against the corner of Robbe’s mouth. He sucked Robbe’s bottom lip into his mouth, grazing it gently with his teeth and tugging until Robbe’s breath hitched. “But not as delicious as you—”

Robbe’s pulse jumped—it stunned him how even after all these months, Sander could still make his heart race with no effort at all—and returned to his seat, appeased. There was a twinkle in Sander’s eye that made Robbe’s cheeks pink. 

“Relax,” Robbe ordered, trying and failing to hide how turned-on he was. It was possible he and Sander would need to make a quick trip back to their bedroom before they left for the day. “We both have therapy in a bit.”

“Jean and Martha want us to have healthy sex lives, Robin,” said Sander, the corner of his mouth curling cheekily, “I think they’ll forgive us if we’re a few minutes late.”

Robbe kicked Sander’s shin under the table. Jean and Martha were their respective therapists—they’d both been attending sessions every two weeks. Martha was a counselor who Robbe first started seeing when he was fifteen, though when he was younger his attendance was patchy at best. Counseling embarrassed him as a teenager: it wasn’t until recently that Robbe realized just how much he still needed to talk through his poor self-care practices. Jean was Sander’s therapist: he’d been seeing her since he was a teenager. In the darkest nadir of his self-loathing, Sander had stopped going altogether. Robbe and Sander had made a pact that they would both start attending regular sessions again. It wasn’t always easy: there were mornings when it took Robbe hours of cajoling to convince Sander to go, and sometimes Robbe sat through an entire counseling sessions without saying more than a few words, but they were trying. It got a little bit easier every time. 

Once their breakfasts were finished, Sander picked Robbe up from the table and arranged him in his lap. Robbe’s fingers were just beginning to work at Sander’s zipper when they heard Senne’s bedroom door open.

“Again?” Zoe demanded. Robbe hid his face in Sander’s shoulder, mortified. Sander muffled his laugher into Robbe’s hair as Zoe stomped past, muttering under her breath about boys being unable to keep it in their pants for a _single breakfast_ , apparently—

Senne clapped Sander on the shoulder as he walked past, suppressing a grin. 

Sander squeezed Robbe’s waist and lifted him off his lap with a final kiss. “Alright, baby, up, we gotta go—”

Robbe whined, still clinging to Sander’s shoulders. “But you said—”

“We’ve been late like three weeks in a row,” Sander reminded him with another teasing kiss. “Jean and Martha have only so much patience.”

Robbe gave a long-suffering sigh, leaning against Sander’s chest. “You’re a sadist.”

“You know, telling me I’m a sadist really loses its effectiveness after the hundredth time.”

“Well, it’s important that I remind you.”

“Sure it is, baby,” said Sander, taking Robbe by the chin and kissing his forehead. He patted his cheek. “Put your coat on.”

Robbe complained all the way to the car, only shutting up when Sander assured him that they had the entire penthouse to themselves that evening. They parted ways for their respective sessions. Afterwards, Sander picked Robbe up for lunch and they went to the hospital.

Sander hadn’t properly met Robbe’s Mama yet, though Robbe had answered all of her embarrassing questions about him and shown her plenty of photos—though he knew his Mama would love Sander instantly, he wanted to at least prepare her for the tattoos and leather jacket. Though he was a little anxious about them finally meeting, he was mostly excited: he’d witnessed Sander charm the pants off nearly everyone he came across enough times to know that he could trust Sander with his Mama, and vice versa.

She was already waiting for them in the lobby when they arrived. Sander was a perfect gentleman: he introduced himself with a kiss on her cheek and took all of her bags, refusing to let her lift a finger. 

Robbe watched his Mama light up as Sander turned the full 100-watt glow of his charm on her. His Mama looked equal parts thrilled, grateful, and overwhelmed, and Robbe couldn’t help but sympathize. After all, he could still remember the first time he’d been on the receiving end of Sander’s attention: it was a lot to take in.

Sander drove them to his Mama’s apartment. He carried his Mama’s bags to the door while Robbe hooked his elbow in hers, leading her up the stairs. 

Robbe unlocked the door, biting back a grin when he saw his Mama cover his mouth with her hands.

He shared a sidelong look with Sander, who pulled Robbe close and pressed his lips to his temple. They watched proudly as Robbe’s Mama took in the apartment: they’d filled it with flowers and candles, wanting her to feel at home the moment she returned. The kitchen was freshly stocked with all of her favorite foods, and Sander had gotten all the ingredients he needed to make the three of them a celebratory welcome-home dinner. 

Robbe helped Sander find the pots and pans he’d need to start cooking. He and his Mama sat at the kitchen table, watching as Sander skillfully took over the kitchen as if he’d lived there his entire life, teasing Robbe and showering his Mama in compliments as he chopped up vegetables. 

Once most of the ingredients were in the pot—Sander was making some sort of fancy soup—he put Robbe on stirring duty while he sliced bread. 

Sander was in the middle of telling his Mama a story when he was cut off abruptly by his phone buzzing. Robbe turned, curious, spoon in hand. A complicated expression played across Sander’s face as he read the screen.

“One sec,” Sander promised. “I gotta take this. Can I trust you in here by yourself?”

Robbe rolled his eyes. Sander took him by the waist from behind and kissed Robbe’s cheek, much more chastely than he usually would—his Mama was still in the kitchen with them, after all—before ducking out to accept the call.

His Mama gently critiqued Robbe’s stirring technique and insisted on taking over from there. Robbe busied himself with opening a bottle of wine. They’d already finished half a glass each by the time Sander finally returned. 

Robbe pulled him into the living room, out of earshot from his Mama.

“What was that about?” asked Robbe, concerned. “Is everything alright?”

“No, actually,” said Sander. “That was my Mama, just now.”

“Did something happen?”

“Yeah,” said Sander. “She’s pretty upset. With me. And you, actually.”

“With me?” said Robbe, his pulse quickening. He’d never even met Sander’s Mama. Why would she be upset with him? 

“Yeah,” said Sander seriously, running his thumbs along the back of Robbe’s hands, “she’s pretty hurt actually.”

The corner of Sander’s lip twitched, ever so slightly. Robbe narrowed his eyes. 

He’d been dating Sander long enough to know he had a tell. Sander was fucking with him.

Robbe punched him gently in the chest. Sander grinned, pulling Robbe in by the waist. “She’s hurt we’re hanging out with your Mama instead of her.”

“Well…” Robbe’s brain worked quickly. Even if Sander was only teasing him, he hated the idea that Sander’s Mama might actually think Robbe didn’t want to meet her. “I just thought, with your Dad there and everything—”

“That’s what she called about, actually,” said Sander, smiling genuinely now. “She said she was calling me from a new apartment.”

“So that means—”

“She finally left him, yeah,” Sander said quietly. “She’s said for years she wanted to move out, but she never seemed to be able to actually bite the bullet and just _do it_. She said she’d wanted to call me for weeks to tell me, but she didn’t want to tell me until everything was finalized. There’s been too many _almosts,_ too many broken promises. The most she’d ever do was kick him out for a few nights. But she did it,” he laughs a little, as if he still can’t quite believe it. “She actually did it.”

“Sander,” said Robbe, wrapping his arms around Sander’s shoulder, hugging him close. “That’s amazing.”

Sander pressed his cheek against the top of Robbe’s head, squeezing him tight. Robbe felt him exhale shakily.

“How do you feel?” Robbe whispered.

“Good,” said Sander. “I feel good. Weird, but good. I still can’t really believe it. I’ve wanted this for so long…after I cut him off, all I wanted was for her to do the same. To get out from under his heel, you know? Get her dignity back. I was afraid she never would.”

Robbe pulled back a little from their hug, so he could look into Sander’s face. Sander wrapped a lock of Robbe’s hair around his finger, gazing down at him so fondly that Robbe’s stomach twisted. 

“Can I meet her?” Robbe asked.

Sander leaned down to kiss him. “Of course,” he murmured.

“Alright boys, enough of that,” Robbe’s Mama called from the kitchen. “I’m starting to get lonely in here.”

Robbe groaned in embarrassment, letting Sander tug him back into the kitchen. 

Sander took over at the stove again, turning up the charm in full force. He led Robbe’s Mama back to the table with a gentle scolding—he’d told her she wasn’t allowed to lift a finger, after all—and poured her another glass of wine. The soup was ready, and Sander and Robbe set the table together, stealing glances at one another.

“You still haven’t told me how the two of you met,” said Robbe’s Mama, blowing gently on her spoon. The three of them were seated now, his Mama in the middle, Robbe and Sander opposite each other, their ankles interlocked beneath the table.

Sander’s eyes locked on Robbe’s across the table. His eyebrow quirked. Robbe couldn’t help but flush, remembering the boy he’d mistaken for a Renaissance painting, too beautiful to be real. He remembered their eyes meeting over dozens of art-school assholes, Sander rakish and wicked and wrapped in a mic cord, Robbe certain that Sander couldn’t possibly be looking at him. Robbe, lonesome and miserable and intent on drowning himself in whatever substance he could reach to retreat from his own wretchedness. Sander, resplendent in starlight and the dangerous glow of a hot tub, daring Robbe to join him. The torturous push-pull whiplash of Sander’s affection, driving both of them to madness. The unspeakable bliss when they finally surrendered.

“Well,” Sander started, winking at Robbe across the table before turning to his Mama, “he was _trouble_ right from the start, I can tell you that much—”

Robbe kicked Sander under the table. His Mama and Sander both burst out laughing. After dinner, they went to the living room to finish off their bottle of wine. Robbe and Sander sat on the couch, Robbe tucked into the crook of Sander’s arm. His Mama sat across from them in her favorite armchair. 

A photo on the end table caught Robbe’s eye. It was a framed photo of him. He looked to be about thirteen. There was a skateboard under his heel, and his hair was even longer than it was now. Though he was smiling in the photo, there was a tightness around the corner of his eyes, and Robbe felt a quick, stomach-turning rush of familiarity. He could remember being that thirteen-year-old so well. His Mama’s condition was worsening every day, and to make matters worse, that was the year Robbe first began to suspect that he liked boys in a way he’d been raised to believe was sick and disgusting. He was so _lonely_ , back then. So certain he’d never find someone to take care of him, or to take care of in return, so afraid his heart would atrophy from disuse. A rotting thing. 

Sander’s fingers threaded with his, and Robbe ripped his gaze away. His Mama was smiling in a way he hadn’t seen her smile in years as Sander regaled her with another one of his stories. Sander looked down at him, his eyes softening. Robbe curled into him even closer, sparing just one last look at the photo of that lonely, broken teenager he’d once been.

_Just wait, kid,_ he thought. _Just wait._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well, here it is! i have to say, it was really hard to let this fic go. i've loved writing this story so much. beyond my love for robbe and sander, a lot of the themes i explored in this fic were super personal to me, and i'm so grateful to you all for coming on this journey with me. 
> 
> thank you a million times over for the (stunning, overwhelming, truly mind-blowing) response you've given this fic. this fandom has been so lovely and supportive and i just cannot emphasize enough how much your kind words and encouragement has meant to me. i am endlessly grateful. 
> 
> i can't wait to hear what you all thought about the final installment. your comments truly mean the world to me! or if you prefer tumblr, [my inbox @aholynight is always open](https://aholynight.tumblr.com/)  
> if you wanna say hey :)


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